FASHION  AND   FAMINE. 


BY 


MRS.  ANN   S.  STEPHENS 


There  i*  ne  sorrow  for  the  earnest  *ooJ 
That  looketh  up  to  God  in  perfect  faitk. 


TWENTY-FIFTH   THOUSAXIX 


$m  f  nrk: 

BUNCE    &    BROTHER,    PUBLISHERS, 

134  NASSAU  STREET. 


MDCCCLIV. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  ISM,  by 

MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court,  for  the  Southern  District  of  Hew  York, 


Republished  in  London  by  RICHARD  BENTLEY,  through  special  arrangemeat 
with  the  Author 


W.   II.   TINSON-, 

STEREOTYPES, 

24   BdekroaP   Street. 


TAWS,  RUSSELL  &  Co.,  Printers, 
6  Reekman  and  IS  Spruce  St.,  N.  Y, 


PS 


MRS.    LYDIA    H.    SIGOURflEY, 

OF  HARTFORD,  CONN., 

THE    MOST    VALUED    FRIEND    THAT    I    HAVE, 
A\D    ONE    OF    THE    BEST    WOMEN    I    EVEK    KNEW,    THIS    BOOK 


Iblost  3&je$p«tfull2 

ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 


u»ivj    SIT? 


rtfate. 


WHAT  shall  I  say  in  this  Preface  to  my  book  ?  Shall  I  make  the  usual 
half-sincere,  half-affected  apology  of  haste  and  inexperience,  with  hints 
of  improvement  in  future  efforts  ?  Indeed  I  cannot,  for  though  this 
volume  really  is  the  first  novel  ever  printed  in  book  form  under  my 
name,  its  imperfections,  whatever  they  are,  arise  from  no  inexperience 
or  undue  haste,  but  from  absolute  lack  of  power  to  accomplish  that 
which  I  have  undertaken.  Nor  is  it  probable  that  the  points  in  which 
I  have  failed  here,  would  be  very  greatly  improved  were  the  same  book 
to  be  written  again. 

I  have  endeavored  to  make  this  book  a  good  one.  If  I  have  failed 
it  is  because  the  power  has  not  been  granted  to  me  by  the  Source  of  all 
power,  and  for  deficiency  like  this,  the  only  admissible  apology  would  be 
for  having  written  at  all.  But  excuses  are  out  of  place  here.  The  book, 
with  all  its  faults,  is  frankly  surrendered  to  the  public  judgment,  asking 
neither  favoritism  or  forbearance,  save  that  favoritism  which  deals  gently 
with  unintentional  error,  and  that  forbearance  which  no  American  ever 
withholds  from  a  woman.  Shall  I  say  that  this  volume  is  launched  on 
the  world  with  fear  and  trembling  ?  That  would  express  an  ungrateful 
want  of  faith  in  a  class  of  readers  who  have  generously  sustained  me 
through  years  of  literary  toil,  and  have  nobly  supported  not  only  Peter 
son's  Ladies'  National  Magazine  now  under  my  charge,  but  every  periodi 
cal  with  which  I  have  been  connected.  It  would  be  ungrateful  to  the 
press  that,  without  a  single  respectable  exception,  has  always  dealt  gene 
rously  by  me,  and  would  betray  a  weakness  of  character  which  I  am  not 
willing  to  acknowledge,  for  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  tremble  at 


Vi  PREFACE. 

nothing  which  results  from  an  honest  intention,  and  to  fear  nothing  l>ut 
deserved  disgrace — the  death  of  beloved  objects — or  change  in  those 
affections  that  no  literary  fame  or  misfortune  can  ever  reach. 

But  it  is  not  without  emotions  that  I  present  this  book  to  the  public, 
grateful  and  sweet  emotions  that  liberal  minds  must  respect  more  than  a 
thousand  insincere  apologies.  The  thoughts  of  an  author  are  the  perfume 
of  her  own  soul  going  forth  on  the  winds  of  heaven  to  awaken  other  soulf 
and  renew  itself  in  their  kindred  sympathies.  I  am  more  anxious  for 
the  effect  which  these  thoughts,  so  long  a  portion  of  my  own  being,  will 
have  upon  others,  than  for  the  return  they  may  bring  to  myself.  The 
American  people  are,  in  the  mass,  just  and  intelligent  judges ;  always 
generous  and  perhaps  over-indulgent  to  their  authors.  In  writing  this 
book  I  have  endeavored  to  deserve  their  approbation  and  to  cast  no  dis 
credit  upon  a  profession  that  I  honor  more  than  any  other  upon  the  broad 
earth.  If  I  have  succeeded,  no  human  being  can  be  more  grateful  than  I 
shall  be  for  the  public  opinion  that  assures  me  of  it ;  but,  to  satisfy  even 
my  humble  ambition,  it  must  be  an  opinion  honestly  earned  and  frankly 
given.  Popularity  won  without  merit,  and  lost  without  blame,  would  be 
valueless  to  me,  even  while  it  lasted. 


New  York,  May  22, 1854. 


Uitlfttf* 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

i.  The  Strawberry  Girl  and  Market  "Woman  ....        9 
u.  The  Old  Couple  in  the  Back  Basement       ....      26 

in.  The  Lone  Mansion  and  its  Mistress 43 

IT.  The  Astor  House— the  Ride— the  Attic  Room  ...      54 

v.  Mistress  and  Servant  in  Consultation         ....      72 

vi.  The  Tempter  and  the  Tempted — the  young  heart  yields  .      81 

vii.  The  Old  Homestead  and  Home  Memories          ...      89 

vin.  The  City  Cottage  and  its  Strange  Inmate          .        .        .110 

DL  Mrs.  Gray's  Thanksgiving  Dinner — Julia  and  Robert       .    126 

x.  The  Brother's  Return — Questions  and  Answers         .        .    141 

xi.  The  Mother's  Letter  and  the  Son's  Commentary       .        .158 

xn.  Strife  for  an  Earl— Mrs.  Sykes  and  Mrs.  Nash  .        .        .163 

xra.  The  Morning  Lesson — Doubt — Sympathy — Misery   .        .    179 

xrv.  A  "Wedding  Foreshadowed — Sunshine  of  the  Heart          .    187 

xv.  The  Mother's  Appeal— the  Son's  Falsehood      .        .        .194 

XVL  The  Bridal  Wreath — Roses  and  Cypress     .        .        .        .211 

xvn.  An  Hour  before  the  Ball — Strides  of  Destiny    .        .        .    222 

xvm.  The  Forged  Check — Uncle  and  Nephew    ....    228 

xrx.  Night  and  Morning— Wild  Heart  Strife     .        .        .        .234 

xx.  The  Last  Interview— Parting— Death        .       .       .       .251 

xxi.  The  City  Prison — Examination  for  Murder        .        .        .    266 

xxn.  The  Imprisoned  Witness  in  the  Female  Ward    .        .       .    282 

xxm.  The  Three  Old  Women  in  Fulton  Market          .       .       .299 

xxiv.  The  First  Night  in  Prison— Prayers— Tears— Dreams       .    311 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

xxv.  Little  Georgie — his  Mother  and  Julia  Warren    .        .        .  319 

xxvi.  Mrs.  Gray  and  the  Prison  Woman 330 

xxvu.  Struggles  and  Revels — Unquenehed  Anguish    .                .  338 

xxvin.  Ada  Leicester  and  Jacob  Strong 344 

xxrx.  Ada's  Solitary  Breakfast— Desolation  of  Heart          .       .  350 

xxx.  The  Prison  Woman  in  Ada's  Dressing-Room      .        .        .  354 

•gyrr.  The  Tombs  Lawyer  and  his  Client  Mrs.  Gray     .        .        .  366 

xxxn.  The  Lawyer's  Visit  to  his  Client 372 

xxxin.  The  Trial  for  Murder — Opening  Scenes       ....  380 

xxxrv.  The  Two  Witnesses — Recognition  too  Late        .        .       .  388 

xxxv.  The  Verdict— Stillness— Death-Shadows    .        .        .        .399 

xxxvi.  The  Parents,  the  Child  and  Grandchild     ....  405 

xxxvn.  The  Dawning  of.  Light — Angelic  Missions         .       .        .  412 

xxxvm.  Gathering  for  the  Execution      .                       ...  414 

XXXTX.  Hearts  and  Consciences  at  Rest         .       .       .       •       .  422 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE      STRAWBERRY     GIRL. 

Like  wild  flowers  on  the  mountain  side, 

Goodness  may  be  of  any  soil ; 
Yet  intellect,  in  all  its  pride, 

And  energy,  with  pain  and  toil, 
Hath  never  wrought  a  holier  thing 

Than  Charity  in  humble  birth. 
God's  brightest  angel  stoops  his  wing, 

To  meet  so  much  of  Heaven  on  earth. 

THE  morning  had  not  fully  dawned  on  New  York,  yet  its 
approach  was  visible  everywhere  amid  the  fine  scenery  around 
the  city.  The  dim  shadows  piled  above  Weehawken,  were 
warming  up  with  purple,  streaked  here  and  there  with  threads 
of  rosy  gold.  The  waters  of  the  Hudson  heaved  and  rippled 
to  the  glow  of  yellow  and  crimson  light,  that  came  and 
went  in  flashes  on  each  idle  curl  of  the  waves.  Long  Island 
lay  in  the  near  distance  like  a  thick,  purplish  cloud,  through 
which  the  dim  outline  of  house,  tree,  mast  and  spire  loomed 
mistily,  like  half-formed  objects  on  a  camera  obscura. 

Silence — that  strange,  dead  >ilence  that  broods  over  a  scene 
crowded  with  slumbering  life-  ^lay  upon  the  city,  broken  only 
by  the  rumble  of  vegetable  carts  and  the  jar  of  milk-cans,  as 
they  rolled  up  from  the  different  ferries  ;  or  the  half-smothered 
roar  of  some  steamboat  putting  into  its  dock,  freighted  with 
sleeping  passengers. 

After  a  little,  symptoms  of  aroused  life  became  visible  about 

1* 


10  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

the  wharves.  Grocers,  carmen,  and  huckster-women  began  to 
swarm  around  the  provision  boats.  The  markets  nearest  the 
water  were  opened,  and  soon  became  theatres  of  active  bustle. 
The  first  market  opened  that  day  was  in  Fulton  street.  As 
the  morning  deepened,  piles  of  vegetables,  loads  of  beef,  ham 
pers  of  fruit,  heaps  of  luscious  butter,  cages  of  poultry,  canary 
birds  swarming  in  their  wiry  prisons,  forests  of  green-house 
plants,  horse-radish  grinders  with  their  reeking  machines,  venders 
of  hot  coffee,  root  beer  and  dough  nuts,  all  with  men,  women 
and  children  swarming  in,  over  and  among  them,  like  so  many 
ants,  hard  at  work,  filled  the  spacious  arena,  but  late  a  range  of 
silent,  naked  and  gloomy  looking  stalls.  Then  carts,  laden  and 
groaning  beneath  a  weight  of  food,  came  rolling  up  to  this  great 
mart,  crowding  each  avenue  with  fresh  supplies.  All  was  life  and 
eagerness.  Stout  men  and  bright-faced  women  moved  through 
the  verdant  chaos,  arranging,  working,  chatting,  all  full  of  life 
and  enterprise,  while  the  rattling  of  carts  outside,  and  the  gra 
dual  accumulation  of  sounds  everywhere,  bespoke  a  great  city 
aroused,  like  a  giant  refreshed,  from  slumber. 

Slowly  there  arose  out  of  this  cheerful  confusion,  forms  of 
homely  beauty,  that  an  artist  or  a  thinking  man  might  have 
loved  to  look  upon.  The  butchers'  stalls,  but  late  a  desolate 
range  of  gloomy  beams,  were  reddening  with  fresh  joints,  many 
of  them  festooned  with  fragrant  branches  and  gorgeous  garden 
flowers.  The  butchers  standing,  each  by  his  stall,  with  snow- 
white  apron,  and  an  eager,  joyous  look  of  traffic  on  his  face, 
formed  a  display  of  comfort  and  plenty,  both  picturesque  and 
pleasant  to  contemplate. 

The  fruit  and  vegetable  stands  were  now  loaded  with  damp, 
green  vegetables,  each  humble  root  having  its  own  peculiar  tint, 
often  arranged  with  a  singular  taste  for  color,  unconsciously 
possessed  by  the  woman  who  exercised  no  little  skill  in  setting 
off  her  stand  to  advantage. 

There  was  one  vegetable  stand  to  which  we  would  draw  the 
reader's  particular  attention  ;  not  exactly  as  a  type  of  the  others, 
for  there  was  something  so  unlike  all  the  rest,  both  in  this  stall 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  11 

and  its  occupant,  that  it  would  have  drawn  the  attention  of  any 
person  possessed  of  the  slightest  artistical  taste.  It  was  like 
the  arrangement  of  a  picture,  that  long  table  heaped  with  fruit, 
the  freshest  vegetables,  and  the  brightest  flowers,  ready  for  the 
day's  traffic.  Rich  scarlet  radishes  glowing  up  through  their 
foliage  of  tender  green,  were  contrasted  with  young  onions 
swelling  out  from  their  long  emerald  stalks,  snowy  and  trans 
parent  as  so  many  great  pearls.  Turnips,  scarcely  larger  than 
a  hen's  egg,  and  nearly  as  white,  just  taken  fresh  and  fragrant 
from  the  soil,  lay  against  heads  of  lettuce,  tinged  with  crisp  and 
greenish  gold,  piled  against  the  deep  blackish  green  of  spinach 
and  water-cresses,  all  moist  with  dew,  or  wet  with  bright  water- 
drops  that  had  supplied  its  place,  and  taking  a  deeper  tint 
from  the  golden  contrast.  These  with  the  red  glow  of  straw 
berries  in  their  luscious  prime,  piled  together  in  masses,  and 
shaded  with  fresh  grape  leaves  ;  bouquets  of  roses,  hyacinths, 
violets,  and  other  fragrant  blossoms,  lent  their  perfume  and  the 
glow  of  their  rich  colors  to  the  coarser  children  of  the  soil,  and 
would  have  been  an  object  pleasant  to  look  upon,  indepeix 
dent  of  the  fine  old  woman  who  sat  complacently  on  her  little 
stool,  at  one  end  of  the  table,  in  tranquil  expectation  of  custo-  > 
mers  that  were  sure  to  drop  in  as  the  morning  deepened. 

And  now  the  traffic  of  the  day  commenced  in  earnest.  Ser 
vants,  housekeepers  and  grocers  swarmed  into  the  market.  The 
clink  of  money — the  sound  of  sharp,  eager  banter — the  dull 
noise  of  the  butcher's  cleaver,  were  heard  on  every  hand.  It 
was  a  pleasant  scene,  for  every  face  looked  smiling  and  happy. 
The  soft  morning  air  seemed  to  have  brightened  all  things  into 
cheerfulness. 

With  the  earliest  group  that  entered  Fjjlton^market  that 
morning  was  a  girl,  perhaps  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  old,  but 
tiny  in  her  form,  and  appearing  far  more  juvenile  than  that.  A 
pretty  quilted  hood,  of  rose-colored  calico,  was  turned  back  from 
her  face,  which  seemed  naturally  delicate  and  pale  ;  but  the 
fresh  air,  and  perhaps  a  shadowy  reflection  from  her  hood,  gave 
the  glow  of  a  rose-bud  to  her  cheeks.  Still  there  was  anxi- 


12  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

ety  upon  her  young  face.  Her  eyes  of  a  dark  violet  blue, 
drooped  heavily  beneath  their  black  and  curling  lashes,  if  any 
one  from  the  numerous  stalls  addressed  her  ;  for  a  small  splint 
basket  on  her  arm,  new  and  perfectly  empty,  was  a  sure  indica 
tion  that  the  child  had  been  sent  to  make  purchase  ;  while  her 
timid  air — the  blush  that  came  and  went  on  her  face — bespoke 
as  plainly  that  she  was  altogether  unaccustomed  to  the  scene, 
and  had  no  regular  place  at  which  to  make  her  humble  bargains. 
The  child  seemed  a  waif  cast  upon  the  market ;  and  she  was  so 
beautiful,  notwithstanding  her  humble  dress  of  faded  and  darned 
calico,  that  at  almost  every  stand  she  was  challenged  pleasantly 
to  pause  and  fill  her  basket.  But  she  only  cast  down  her  eyes 
and  blushed  more  deeply,  as  with  her  little  bare  feet  she  hur 
ried  on  through  the  labyrinth  of  stalls,  toward  that  portion  of 
the  market  occupied  by  the  huckster-women.  Here  she  began 
to  slacken  her  pace,  and  to  look  about  her  with  no  inconsiderable 
anxiety. 

"  What  do  you  want,  little  girl ;  anything  in  my  way  ?"  was 
repeated  to  her  once  or  twice,  as  she  moved  forward.  At  each 
of  these  challenges  she  would  pause,  look  earnestly  into  the 
face  of  the  speaker,  and  then  pass  on  with  a  faint  wave  of  the 
head,  that  expressed  something  of  sad  and  timid  disappointment. 

At  length  the  child — for  she  seemed  scarcely  more  than  that 
— was  growing  pale,  and  her  eyes  turned  with  a  sort  of  sharp 
anxiety  from  one  face  to  another,  when  suddenly  they  fell  upon 
the  buxom  old  huckster-woman,  whose'  stall  we  have  described. 
There  was  something  in  the  good  dame's  appearance  that 
brought  an  eager  and  satisfied  look  to  that  pale  face.  She  drew 
close  to  the  stand,  and  stood  for  some  seconds,  gazing  timidly  on 
the  old'  woman.  It  was  a  pleasant  face,  and  a  comfortable,  portly 
form  enough,  that  the  timid  girl  gazed  upon.  Smooth  and  comely 
were  the  full  and  rounded  cheeks,  with  their  rich  autumn  color, 
dimpled  like  an  over-ripe  apple.  Fat  and  good  humored  enough 
to  defy  wrinkles,  the  face  looked  far  too  rosy  for  the  thick,  gray 
hair  that  was  shaded,  not  concealed,  by  a  cap  of  clear  white 
muslin,  with  a  broad,  deep  border,  and  tabs  that  met  like  a 


FASHION      AND      FAM 

snowy  girth  to  support  the  firm,  double  chin, 
eyes  dwell  upon  a  chin  so  full  of  health  and  good  humor  as  that. 
It  sloped  with  a  sleek,  smiling  grace  down  from  the  plump 
mouth,  and  rolled  with  a  soft,  white  wave  into  the  neck,  scarcely 
leaving  an  outline,  or  the  want  of  one,  before  it  was  lost  in  the 
white  of  that  muslin  kerchief,  folded  so  neatly  beneath  the 
ample  bosom  of  her  gown.  Then  the  broad  linen  apron  of  blue 
and  white  check,  girding  her  waist,  and  flowing  over  the  smooth 
rotundity  of  person,  was  a  living  proof  of  the  ripeness  and 
wholesome  state  of  her  merchandise. — I  tell  you,  reader,  that 
woman,  take  her  for  all  in  all,  was  one  to  draw  the  attention, 
aye,  and  the  love  of  a  child,  who  had  come  forth  barefooted 
and  alone  in  search  of  kindness. 

At  length  the  huckster-woman  saw  the  child  gazing  upon  her 
with  a  look  so  earnest,  that  she  was  quite  startled  by  it.  She 
also  caught  a  glance  at  the  empty  basket,  and  her  little  brown 
eyes  twinkled  at  the  promise  of  a  new  customer. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  what  do  you  want  this  morning  ?"  she  said, 
smoothing  her  apron  with  a  pair  of  plump,  little  hands,  and 
casting  a  well  satisfied  look  over  her  stall,  and  then  at  the  girl, 
who  grew  pale  at  her  notice,  and  began  to  tremble  visibly — 
"  all  sorts  of  vegetables,  you  see — flowers — strawberries — rad 
ishes — what  will  you  have,  child  ?" 

The  little  girl  crept  round  to  where  the  woman  stood,  and 
speaking  in  a  low,  frightened  voice,  said — 

"  Please,  ma'm,  I  want  you  to  trust  me  1" 

"  Trust  you  1"  said  the  woman,  with  a  soft  laugh  that  shook 
her  double  chin,  and  dimpled  her  cheeks.  "  Why,  I  don't  know 
you,  little  one — what  on  earth  do  you  want  trust  for  ?  Lost 
the  market  money,  hey,  and  afraid  of  a  scolding — is  that  it  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  haven't  lost  any  money,"  said  the  child  eagerly  ; 
"please   ma'm,  just  stoop  down    one    minute,   while    I  tell- 
you  1" 

The  little  girl  in  her  earnestness  took  hold  of  the  woman's 
apron,  and  she,  kind  soul,  sunk  back  to  her  stool :  it  was  the 
most  comfortable  way  of  listening. 


14  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  I — I  live  with  grandfather  and  grandmother,  ma'm  ;  they 
are  old  and  poor — you  don't  know  how  poor  ;  for  he,  grandpa, 
has  been  sick,  and — it  seems  strange — I  eat  as  much  as  any  of 
them.  Well,  ma'm,  I  tried  to  get  something  to  do,  but  you  see 
how  little  I  am  ;  nobody  will  think  me  strong  enough,  even  to 
tend  baby  ;  so  we  have  all  been  without  anything  to  eat,  since 
day  before  yesterday." 

"  Poor  thing  1"  muttered  the  huckster-woman,  "  poor  thing  1" 

"  Well,  ma'm,  I  must  do  something.  I  can  bear  anything 
better  than  seeing  them  hungry.  I  did  not  sleep  a  wink  all  last 
night,  but  kept  thinking  what  I  should  do.  I  never  begged  in 
my  life  ;  they  never  did  ;  and  it  made  me  feel  sick  to  think  of 
it ;  but  I  could  have  done  it  rather  than  see  them  sit  and  look  at 
each  other  another  day.  Did  you  ever  see  an  old  man  cry  for 
hunger,  ma'm  ?" 

"  No,  no,  God  forbid  !"  answered  the  dame,  brushing  a 
plump  hand  across  her  eyes. 

"  I  have,"  said  the  child,  with  a  sob,  "  and  it  was  this  that 
made  me  think  that  begging,  after  all,  was  not  so  very,  very 
mean.  So,  this  morning,  I  asked  them  to  let  me  go  out  ;  but 
grandpa  said  he  might  go  himself,  if  he  were  strong  enough  ; 
but  I  never  should — never — never  !" 

"  Nice  old  man — nice  old  man  !"  said  the  huckster-woman. 

"  I  did  not  ask  again,"  resumed  the  child,  "  for  an  idea  had 
come  into  my  head  in  the  night.  I  have  seen  little  girls,  no 
older  than  I  am,  selling  radishes  and  strawberries,  and 
things." 

"  Yes — yes,  I  understand  !"  said  the  old  woman,  and  her 
eyes  began  to  twinkle  the  more  brightly  that  they  were  wet 
before.  • 

"  But  I  had  no  strawberries  to  sell,  nor  a  cent  of  money  to 
buy  them  with  !" 

"Well!  well!" 

"  Not  even  a  basket !" 

"  Poor  thing  !" 

"  But  I  was  determined  to  do  something.     So  I  went  to  a 


FASHION      A.ND      FAMINE.  15 

grocery,  where  grandpa  used  to  buy  things  when  he  had  money, 
and  they  trusted  me  with  this  basket." 

"  That  was  very  kind  of  them  !" 

"  Wasn't  it  very  kind  ?"  said  the  child,  her  eyes  brightening, 
"  especially  as  I  told  them  it  was  all  myself — that  grandpa  knew 
nothing  about  it.  See  what  a  nice  new  basket  it  is — you  can't 
think  how  much  courage  it  gave  me.  When  I  came  into  the 
market  it  seemed  as  if  I  shouldn't  be  afraid  to  ask  anybody 
about  trusting  me  a  little." 

"  And  yet  you  came  clear  to  this  side  without  stopping  to 
ask  anybody  ?" 

"  I  was  looking  into  their  faces  to  see  if  it  would  do,"  answer 
ed  the  child,  with  meek  simplicity,  "  but  there  was  something  in 
every  face  that  sent  the  words  back  into  my  throat  again." 

"  So  you  stopped  here  because  it  was  almost  the  last  stand." 

"  No,  no,  I  did  not  think  of  that,"  said  the  child  eagerly. 
"  I  stopped  because  something  seemed  to  tell  me  that  this  was 
the  place.  I  thought  if  you  would  not  trust  me,  you  would, 
any  way,  be  patient  and  listen." 

The  old  huckster-woman  laughed — a  low,  soft  laugh — and  the 
little  girl  began  to  smile  through  her  tears.  There  was  some 
thing  mellow  and  comfortable  in  that  chuckle,  that  warmed  her 
to  the  heart. 

"So  you  were  sure  that  I  would  trust  you — hey,  quite 
sure?" 

"  I  thought  if  you  wouldn't,  there  was  no  chance  for  me  any 
where  else,"  replied  the  child,  lifting  her  soft  eyes  to  the  face 
of  the  matron. 

Again  the  old  woman  laughed. 

"  Well,  well,  let  us  see  how  many  strawberries  will  set  you 
up  in  business  for  the  day.  Six,  ten — a  dozen  baskets — your  little 
arms  will  break  down  with  more  than  that.  I  will  let  you  have 
them  at  cost,  only  be  sure  to  come  back  at  night  with  the 
money.  I  would  not  for  fifty  dollars  have  you  fail." 

"  But  I  may  not  sell  them  all  1"  said  the  child,  anxiously. 

"  I  should  not  wonder,  poor  thing.     That  sweet  voice  oi 


16  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

yours  will  hardly  make  itself  heard  at  first ;  but  never  mind, 
run  down  into  the  areas  and  look  through  the  windows — people 
can't  help  but  look  at  your  face,  God  bless  it !" 

As  the  good  woman  spoke,  she  was  busy  selecting  the  best 
and  most  tempting  strawberries  from  the  pile  of  little  baskets 
that  stood  at  her  elbow.  These  she  arranged  in  the  orphan's 
basket,  first  sprinkling  a  layer  of  damp,  fresh  grass  in  the  bot 
tom,  and  interspersing  the  whole  with  young  grape  leaves,  in 
tended  both  as  an  embellishment,  and  to  keep  the  fruit  fresh 
and  cool.  When  all  was  arranged  to  her  satisfaction,  she  laid 
a  bouquet  of  white  and  crimson  moss  rose-buds  at  each  end  of 
the  basket,  and  interspersed  little  tufts  of  violets  along  the  side, 
till  the  crimson  berries  were  wreathed  in  with  flowers. 

"  There,"  said  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  the  basket  with  a 
sigh  of  satisfaction,  "  between,  the  fruit  and  flowers  you  must 
make  out.  Sell  the  berries  for  sixpence  a  basket,  and  the  ro 
ses  for  all  you  can  get.  People  who  love  flowers  well  enough 
to  buy  them,  never  cavil  about  the  price  ;  just  let  them  pay 
what  they  like." 

The  little  girl  took  the  basket  on  her  arm  ;  her  pretty  mouth 
grew  tremulous  and  bright  as  the  moss  rose-bud  that  blushed 
against  her-  hand  ;  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Oh,  ma'm,  I  want  to  thank  you  so  much,  only  I  don't  know 
how,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  went  to  the  good  woman's 
heart. 

"  There,  there  ! — never  mind— be  punctual,  that's  a  good 
girl.  Now,  my  dear,  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Julia — Julia  Warren,  ma'm  !" 

"  A  pretty  name — very  well — stop  a  moment,  I  had  forgotten." 

The  child  sat  her  basket  down  upon  the  stool  which  the 
huckster-woman  hastily  vacated,  and  waited  patiently  while  the 
good  dame  disappeared  in  some  unknown  region  of  the  market, 
eager  to  accomplish  an  object  that  had  just  presented  itself  to 
her  mind. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  coming  back  with  her  face  all  in  a  glow,  a 
small  tin  pail  in  one  hand,  and  her  apron  gathered  up  in  the 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  17 

other.  "Just  leave  the  strawberries,  and  run  home  with  these. 
It  will  be  a  long  time  for  the  old  folks  to  wait,  and  you  will  go 
about  the  day's  work  with  a  lighter  heart,  when  you  know  that 
they  have  had  a  breakfast,  to  say  nothing  of  yourself,  poor 
thing  !  There,  run  along,  and  be  back  in  no  time." 

Julia  took  the  little  tin  pail  and  the  rolls  that  her  kind  friend 
hastily  twisted  up  in  a  sheet  of  brown  paper. 

"  Oh  !  they  will  be  so  glad,"  broke  from  her,  and  with  a  sob 
of  joy  she  sprang  away  with  her  precious  burden. 

"  Well  now,  Mrs.  Gray,  you  are  a  strange  creature,  trusting 
people  like  that,  and  absolutely  laying  out  money  too  ;  I  only 
wonder  how  you  ever  got  along  at  all  1"  said  a  little,  shrewish 
woman  from  a  neighboring  stand,  who  had  been  watching  this 
scene  from  behind  a  heap  of  vegetables. 

"  Poh  1  it's  my  way  ;  and  I  can  afford  it,"  answered  the  huck 
ster-woman,  rubbing  her  plump  palms  together,  and  twinkling 
her  eyelashes  to  disperse  the  moisture  that  had  gathered  under 
them.  "  I  haven't  sat  in  this  market  fourteen  years  for  nothing. 
The  child  is  a  good  child,  I'll  stake  my  life  on  it !" 

"  I  hope  you  may  never  see  the  pail  again,  that's  all,"  was 
the  terse  reply. 

"  Well,  well,  I  may  be  wrong — maybe  I  am — we  shall  know 
soon.  At  any  rate  I  can  afford  to  lose  half  a  dozen  pails,  that's 
one  comfort." 

"  Always  chuckling  over  the  money  she  lias  saved  up,"  mut 
tered  the  little  woman,  with  a  sneer  ;  "for  my  part  I  don't 
believe  that  she  is  half  as  well  off  as  she  pretends  to  be." 

The  conversation  was  here  cut  short  by  several  customers,  who 
crowded  up  to  make  their  morning  purchases.  During  the  next 
half  hour  good  Mrs.  Gray  was  so  fully  occupied,  that  she  had 
no  opportunity  for  thought  of  her  protege  ;  but  just  as  she 
obtained  a  moment's  breathing  time,  up  came  the  little  girl  pant 
ing  for  breath  ;  her  cheeks  glowing  like  June  roses  ;  and  her 
eyes  sparkling  with  delight. 

"  They  have  had  their  breakfast ;  I  told  them  all  about  it  1" 
she  said,  in  a  panting  whisper,  drawing  close  up  to  the  huckster- 


18  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

woman,  and  handing  back  the  empty  pail.  "  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  grandpa  when  I  took  off  the  cover,  and  let  the  hot 
coffee  steam  into  the  room.  I  only  wish  you  could  have  seen 
him  !" 

"  And  he  liked  it,  did  he  ?" 

"  Liked  it !     Oh  !  if  you  had  been  there  to  see  1" 

The  child's  eyes  were  brimful  of  tears,  and  yet  they  sparkled 
like  diamonds. 

Mrs.  Gray  looked  over  her  stall  to  see  if  there  was  anything 
else  that  could  be  added  to  the  basket.  That  pretty,  grateful 
look  expanded  her  warm  heart  so  pleasantly,  that  she  felt  quite 
like  heaping  everything  at  hand  upon  the  little  girl.  But  the 
basket  was  already  quite  heavy  enough  for  that  slender  arm, 
and  the  addition  of  a  single  handful  of  fruit  or  tuft  of  flowers, 
would  have  destroyed  the  symmetry  of  its  arrangement.  So 
with  a  sigh,  half  of  disappointment,  half  of  that  exquisite  satis 
faction  that  follows  a  kind  act,  she  patted  little  Julia  on  the 
head,  lifted  the  basket  from  the  stool,  and  kindly  bade  her 
begone  to  her  day's  work. 

The  child  departed  with  a  light  tread  and  a  lighter  heart, 
smiling  upon  every  one  she  met,  and  looking  back,  as  if  she 
longed  to  point  out  her  benefactress  to  the  whole  world. 

Mrs.  Gray  followed  her  with  moist  and  sunny  eyes  ;  then  shak 
ing  the  empty,  pail  at  her  cynical  neighbor,  in  the  good-humored 
triumph  of  her  benevolence,  she  carried  it  back  to  the  coffee- 
stand  whence  it  had  been  borrowed. 

"  Strawberries  ! — strawberries  1" 

Julia  Warren  turned  pale,  and  looked  around  like  a  fright 
ened  bird,  when  this  sweet  cry  first  broke  from  her  lips  in  the 
open  street.  Nobody  seemed  to  hear — that  was  one  comfort ; 
so  she  hurried  round  a  corner,  and  creeping  into  the  shadow  of 
a  house,  leaned,  all  in  a  tremor,  against  an  iron  railing,  quite 
confident,  for  the  moment,  that  she  should  never  find  courage  to 
open  her  mouth  again.  But  a  little  reflection  gave  her  strength. 
Mrs.  Gray  had  told  her  that  the  morning  was  her  harvest  hour. 
She  could  not  stand  there  trembling  beneath  the  weight  of  her 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE,  19 

basket.  The  fruity  scent — the  fragrant  breath  of  the  violets 
that  floated  up  from  it,  seemed  to  reproach  her. 

"  Strawberries  ! — strawberries  1" 

The  sound  rose  from  those  red  lips  more  cheerily  now.  There 
was  ripeness  in  the  very  tones  that  put  you  in  mind  of  the  fruit 
itself.  The  cry  was  neither  loud  nor  shrill,  but  somehow  peo 
ple  were  struck  by  it,  and  turned  unconsciously  to  look  upon 
the  girl.  This  gave  her  fresh  courage,  for  the  glances  were  all 
kind,  and  as  she  became  accustomed  to  her  own  voice,  the  nov 
elty  of  her  position  began  to  lose  its  terror.  A  woman  called 
to  her  from  the  area  of  a  house,  and  purchased  two  baskets  of 
the  strawberries,  without  asking  any  reduction  in  the  price. 
Poor  child,  how  her  heart  leaped  when  the  shilling  was  placed 
in  her  hand  1  How  important  the  whole  transaction  seemed  to 
her  ;  yet  with  what  indifference  the  woman  paid  for  the  straw 
berries,  and  turned  to  carry  them  into  the  basement. 

Julia  looked  through  the  railings  and  thanked  this  important 
customer.  She  could  not  help  it  ;  her  little  heart  was  full.  A 
muttered  reply  that  she  was  "  welcome,"  came  back  ;  that  was 
all.  Notwithstanding  the  gruff  answer,  Julia  took  up  her  basket 
with  a  radiant  face. 

"  Strawberries  ! — strawberries  1" 

Now  the  words  came  forth  from  red  and  smiling  lips — nay, 
once  or  twice  the  little  girl  broke  into  a  laugh,  as  she  went  along, 
for  the  bright  shilling  lay  in  the  bottom  of  her  basket.  She 
wandered  on  unacquainted  with  the  streets,  but  quite  content ; 
for  though  she  found  herself  down  among  warehouses  only,  and 
in  narrow,  crowded  streets,  the  gentlemen  who  hurried  by  would 
now  and  then  turn  for  a  bunch  of  violets,  and  she  kept  on  be 
wildered,  but  happy  as  a  bird. 

All  at  once  the  strawberry  girl  found  herself  among  the  ship 
ping  ;  and  a  little  terrified  at  the  coarse  and  barren  appearance 
of  the  wharves,  she  paused  close  by  the  water,  irresolute  what 
direction  to  pursue.  It  was  now  somewhat  deep  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  everything  was  life  and  bustle  in  that  commercial  dis 
trict-,  for  the  child  was  but  a  few  streets  above  the  Battery,  and 


20  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

could  detect  the  cool  wave  of  its  trees  through  a  vista  in  the 
buildings.  The  harbor,  glowing  with  sunshine  and  covered  with 
every  species  of  water  craft,  lay  spread  before  her  gaze.  Brook 
lyn  Heights,  Jersey  City,  and  the  leafy  shores  of  Hoboken,  half 
veiled  in  the  golden  haze  of  a  bright  June  morning,  rose  before 
her  like  soft  glimpses  of  the  fairy  land  she  had  loved  to  read 
about.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  been  in  that  portion  of  the 
city  before  ;  and  she  forgot  everything  in  the  strange  beauty  of 
the  scene,  which  few  ever  looked  upon  unmoved.  The  steam 
boats  ploughing  the  silvery  foam  of  the  waters,  curving  around 
the  Battery,  darting  in  and  out  from  every  angle  of  the  shore  ; 
the  fine  national  vessels  sleeping  upon  the  waters,  with  their 
masts  pencilled  against  the  sky,  and  their  great,  black  hulls,  so 
imposing  in  their  motionless  strength  ;  the  ferry-boats,  the  pretty 
barges  and  smaller  kind  of  water  craft  shooting  with  arrowy 
speed  across  the  waves — all  these  things  had  a  strange  and 
absorbing  effect  on  the  girl. 

As  she  stood  gazing  upon  the  scene,  there  came  looming  up 
in  the  distant  horizon,  an  ocean  steamer,  riding  majestically  on 
the  waters,  that  seemed  to  have  suddenly  heaved  the  monster 
up  into  the  bright  June  atmosphere.  At  first,  the  vast  propor 
tions  of  this  sea  monarch  were  lost  in  the  distance  ;  but  it  came 
up  with  the  force  and  swiftness  of  some  wild  steed  of  the  desert, 
and  each  moment  its  vast  size  became  more  visible.  Up  it  came, 
black,  swift,  and  full  of  majestic  strength,  ploughing  the  waters 
with  a  sort  of  haughty  power,  as  if  spurning  the  element  which 
had  become  its  slave.  Its  great  pipes  poured  forth  a  whirlwind 
of  black,  fleecy  smoke,  now  and  then  flaked  and  lurid  with  fire, 
that  whirled  and  whirled  in  the  curling  vapor,  till  all  its  glow 
went  out,  rendering  the  thick  volumes  of  smoke  that  streamed 
over  the  water  still  more  dense  and  murky. 

At  first  the  child  gazed  upon  this  imposing  object  with  a  sen 
sation  of  affright.  Her  large  eyes  dilated  ;  her  cheek  grew  pale 
with  excitement ;  she  felt  a  disposition  to  snatch  up  her  basket, 
and  flee  from  the  water's  edge.  But  curiosity,  and  something 
akin  to  superstitious  dread  kept  her  motionless.  She  had  heard 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  21 

of  these  great  steamships,  and  knew  that  this  must  be  one  ;  yet 
it  seemed  to  her  like  some  dangerous  monster  tortured  with 
black,  fiery  venom.  She  turned  to  an  old  sailor  that  stood  near, 
his  countenance  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  and  muttering  eagerly 
to  himself — 

"  Oh  !  sir,  it  is  only  a  ship — you  are  sure  of  that  1"  she  said, 
for  her  childish  dread  of  strangers  was  lost  in  wonder  at  a  sight 
so  new  and  majestic. 

The  man  turned  and  gave  one  glance  at  the  mild,  blue  eyes 
and  earnest  face  of  the  child. 

"  Why,  bless  your  heart,  what  else  should  it  be  ?  A  ship,  to 
be  sure  it  is — or  at  any  rate,  a  sort  of  one,  going  by  wind  and 
fire  both  together  ;  but  arter  all,  a  clean  rigged  taut  merchant 
man  for  me — that's  the  sort  of  craft  for  an  old  salt  that's  been 
brought  up  to  study  wind  and  water,  not  fire  and  smoke  !  But 
take  care  of  your  traps,  little  one,  she'll  be  up  to  her  berth  in  no 
time." 

The  child  snatched  up  her  basket  and  gave  a  hurried  glance 
around,  seeking  for  some  means  of  egress  from  the  wharf ;  but 
while  she  was  occupied  by  the  steamer,  a  crowd  had  gathered 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  she  shrunk  from  attempting  a 
passage  through  the  mass  of  carts,  carriages  and  people  that 
blocked  up  her  way  to  the  city. 

"  Poh  !  there's  nothing  to  be  afeared  of !"  said  the  good- 
natured  tar,  observing  her  terrified  look  ;  "  only  take  care  of 
your  traps,  and  it's  worth  while  waiting." 

By  this  time  the  steamer  was  opposite  Governor's  Island. 
She  made  a  bold  curve  around  the  Battery,  and  came  up  to 
her  berth  with  a  slow  and  measured  beat  of  the  engine,  blowing 
off  steam  at  intervals,  like  a  racer  drawing  breath  after  sweep 
ing  his  course. 

The  deck  of  the  steamer  was  alive  with  passengers,  an  eager 
crowd  full  of  cheerfulness  and  expectation.  Most  of  them 
were  evidently  from  the  higher  classes  of  society  ;  for  their  rich 
attire  and  a  certain  air  of  refined  indifference  was  manifest, 
even  in  the  excitement  of  an  arrival. 


22  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

Among  the  rest,  Julia  saw  two  persons  that  fascinated  her 
attention  in  a  most  singular  degree,  drawing  it  from  the  whole 
scene,  till  she  heeded  nothing  else. 

One  of  these  was  a  woman  somewhat  above  the  common  size, 
and  of  superb  proportions,  who  leaned  against  the  railing  of 
the  steamer  with  a  heavy,  drooping  bend,  as  if  occupied  with 
some  deep  and  painful  feeling.  One  glove  was  off,  and  her 
eager  grasp  upon  the  black  wood-work  seemed  to  start  the  blue 
veins  up  to  the  snowy  surface  of  a  hand,  whose  symmetry  was 
visible,  even  from  the  shore.  Julia  could  not  remove  her  eyes 
from  the  strange  and  beautiful  -face  of  this  woman.  Deep,  but 
subdued  agony  was  at  work  in  every  lineament.  There  was 
wildness  in  her  very  motion,  as  she  lifted  her  superb  form  from 
the  railing,  and  drew  the  folds  of  a  cashmere  shawl  over  her 
bosom,  pressing  her  hand  hard  upon  the  rich  fabric,  as  if  to 
.  relieve  some  painful  feeling  that  it  covered. 

The  steamer  now  lay  close  in  her  berth.  A  sort  of  movable 
staircase  was  flung  from  the  side  of  the  wharf,  and  down  this 
staircase  came  the  passengers,  eager  to  touch  the  firm  earth 
once  more.  Among  the  foremost  was  the  woman  who  had  so 
riveted  the  attention  of  Julia  Warren ;  and,  behind  her,  bear 
ing  a  silver  dressing-case  and  a  small  embroidered  satchel,  came 
a  tall  and  singular  looking  man.  Though  his  form  was  upright 
enough  in  itself,  he  bent  forward  in  his  walk;  and  his  arms, 
long  and  awkward,  seemed  like  the  members  of  some  other  body, 
that  had,  by  mistake,  been  given  up  to  his  ungainly  use.  His 
l  dress  was  fine  in  material,  but  carelessly  put  on,  ill-fitting  and 
badly  arranged  in  all  its  tints.  A  hat  of  fine  beaver  and 
foreign  make,  seemed  flung  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  settled 
tightly  there  by  a  blow  on  the  crown;  his  great  hands  were 
gloveless;  and  his  boots  appeared  at  least  a  size  too  large  for 
the  feet  they  encased. 

This  man  would  now  and  then  cast  a  glance  from  his  small, 
gray  eyes  on  the  superb  woman  who  preceded  him;  and  it  was 
easy  to  see  by  his  countenance,  that  he  observed,  and  after  his 
fashion  shared  the  anguish  visible  in  her  features.  His  own 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  23 

face  deepened  in  its  expression  of  awkward  sadness  with  every 
glance ;  and  he  hugged  the  dressing  case  to  his  side  with  uncon 
scious  violence,  which  threatened  to  crush  the  delicate  frost 
work  that  enriched  it. 

With  a  wild  and  dry  brightness  in  her  large,  blue  eyes, 
the  lady  descended  to  the  wharf,  a  few  paces  from  the  spot 
occupied  by  the  strawberry  girl.  As  her  foot  touched  the  earth, 
Julia  saw  that  the  white  hand  dropped  from  its  hold  on  the 
shawl,  and  the  costly  garment  half  fell  from  her  shoulders,  trail 
ing  the  dirty  wharf  with  its  embroidery.  In  the  whole  crowd 
there  was  no  object  but  this  woman  to  the  girl.  With  a  pale 
cheek  and  suspended  breath  she  watched  every  look  and  motion. 
There  was  something  almost  supernatural  in  the  concentration 
of  her  whole  being  on  this  one  person.  An  intense  desire  to 
address  the  stranger — to  meet  the  glance  of  her  eyes — to  hear 
her  voice,  seized  upon  the  child.  She  sprang  forward,  obeying 
this  strange  impulse,  and  lifting  the  soiled  drapery  of  the  shawl, 
held  it  up  grasped  in  her  trembling  hands. 

"Lady,  your  shawl  1" 

The  child  could  utter  no  more.  Those  large,  blue  eyes  were 
bent  upon  her  face.  Her  own  seemed  fascinated  by  the  gaze. 
Slowly,  sadly  they  filled  with  tears,  drop  by  drop,  and  the  eyes 
of  that  strange,  beautiful  woman  filled  also.  Still  she  gazed 
upon  the  child — her  clean,  poverty-stricken  dress — her  meek 
face,  and  the  basket  of  fruit  and  flowers  upon  her  arm  ;  and  as 
she  gazed,  a  faint  smile  Crept  around  her  mouth. 

"This  sweet  voice — the  flowers — is  it  not  a  beautiful  wel 
come  ?"  she  said,  glancing  through  her  tears  upon  the  man  who 
stood  close  by  her  side ;  but  the  uncouth  friend,  or  servant, 
whatever  he  might  be,  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  were  riveted 
on  the  child,  and  some  strange  feeling  seemed  to  possess  him. 

"  Give  me,"  said  the  lady,  passing  her  hand  over  Julia's  head 
with  a  caressing  motion — "give  me  some  of  these  roses  ;  it  is 
a  long  time  since  I  have  touched  a  flower  grown  in  home 
soil  1" 

Julia  selected  her  freshest  bouquet  and  held  it  up.      The 


24  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

lady's  hand  trembled  as  she  drew  forth  her  purse,  and  dropping 
a  bright  coin  into  the  basket,  received  the  flowers. 

"Take  a  few  of  the  strawberries,  lady,  they  are  so  ripe  and 
cool  1"  said  the  little  girl,  lifting  one  of  the  baskets  from  its  leafy 
nest. 

Again  the  lady  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  taking  the  lit 
tle  basket,  poured  a  few  of  the  strawberries  into  her  ungloved 
hand. 

"Would  not  he  like  some?"  questioned  the  child,  offering  the 
basket  with  its  scarcely  diminished  contents  to  the  man,  who 
still  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face. 

"No,  not  them — but  give  me  a  bunch  of  the  blue  flowers — 

they  grew  around  the  rock-spring  at  the  old  homestead,  thous- 

/  ands  and  thousands  on  Jem  1"  cried  the  man,  with   a   strong 

/  Down  East  pronunciation,  and  securing  a  tuft  of  the  violets  he 

!  turned  aside,  as  if  ashamed  of  the  emotion  he  had  betrayed. 

The  lady  turned  away.  Something  in  his  words  seemed  to 
have  disturbed  her  greatly.  She  gathered  the  shawl  about  her, 
and  moved  towards  a  carriage  that  had  drawn  close  up  to  the 
wharf. 

Julia's  heart  be&t  quick  ;  she  could  not  bear  to  see  that 
strange,  beautiful  woman  depart  without  speaking  to  her  again. 

"  Lady,  will  you  take  this  one  little  bunch  ? — some  people  love 
violets  better  than  anything  1" 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot — I "  The  lady  paused,  tears  seemed 

choking  her.  She  drew  down  the  folds  of  a  rich  blonde  veil 
over  her  face,  and  moved  on. 

Julia  laid  the  violets  back  into  her  basket  with  a  sigh.  Feel 
ings  of  vague  disappointment  were  saddening  her  heart.  When 
she  looked  up  again,  the  lady  had  taken  her  seat  in  the  carriage, 
and  leaning  out  was  beckoning  to  her. 

"  I  will  take  the  violets  !"  she  said,  reaching  forth  her  hand, 
that  trembled  as  the  simple  blossoms  were  placed  in  it. — 
"  Heaven  forbid -that  I  should  cast  the  sweet  omen  from  me. 
Thank  you  child — thank  you." 

The  lady  drew  back  into  the  carriage.     Her  face  was  clc  uded 


FASHION      AND      PA 

by  the  veil,  but  tears  trembled  in  her 
lingered  upon  Julia  Warren's  ear  many  a 
It  had  unlocked  the  deepest  well-spring  < 

The  strawberry  girl  stood  upon  the  wharf  motion! 
lost  in  thought  minutes  after  the  carriage  drove  away.  She 
had  forgotten  the  basket  on  her  arm,  everything  in  the  strange 
regret  that  lay  upon  her  young  heart.  Never,  never  would 
she  meet  that  beautiful  woman  again.  The  thought  filled  her 
soul  with  unutterable  loneliness.  She  was  unconscious  that 
another  carriage  had  driven  up,  and  that  a  Southern  vessel, 
arrived  that  morning,  was  pouring  forth  luggage  and  passen 
gers  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  pier.  She  took  no  heed  of  any 
thing  that  was  passing  around  her,  till  a  sweet,  low  voice  close 
by,  exclaimed — 

"  Oh  1  see  those  flowers — those  beautiful,  beautiful  moss 
rose-buds  !" 

Julia  looked  up.  A  young  girl  with  soft,  dark  eyes,  and  lips 
dewy  and  red  as  the  buds  she  coveted,  stood  a  few  paces  off,  with 
her  hand  grasped  by  a  tall  and  stately  looking  man,  approaching 
middle  age,  if  not  a  year  or  two  on  the  other  side,  who  seemed 
anxious  to  hurry  his  companion  into  the  carriage. 

"  Step  in,  Florence,  the  girl  can  come  to  us  1"  said  the  man, 
restraining  the  eager  girl,  who  had  withdrawn  her  foot  from 
the  carriage  steps.  "  Come,  come,  lady-bird,  this  is  no  place 
for  us  :  see,  half  the  crowd  are  looking  this  way." 

The  young  lady  blushed  and  entered  the  carriage,  followed 
by  her  impatient  companion,  who  beckoned  Julia  towards  him. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  tossing  a  silver  coin  into  her  basket,  "  give 
me  those  buds,  quick,  and  then  get  out  of  the  way,  or  you  will 
be  trampled  down." 

Julia  held  up  her  basket,  half  terrified  by  the  impatience  that 
broke  from  the  dark  eyes  bent  upon  her. 

"  There,  swe^t  one,  these  might  have  ripened  on  your  own 
smile  :  kiss  them  for  my  sake !"  said  the  man,  gently  bending 
with  his  fragrant  gift  toward  his  lovely  companion. 

His  voice,  soft,  sweet  and  harmonious,  fell  upon  the  child's 

2 


26  FASHION      AND      FAMINE, 

heart  also  ;  and  while  the  tones  melted  into  her  memory,  she 
shuddered  as  the  flower  may  be  supposed  to  shrink  when  a  ser 
pent  creeps  by. 


CHAPTER  II, 

THE     OLD     COUPLE. 

There  is  no  spot  so  dark  on  earth, 

But  love  can  shed  bright  glimmers  there, 
Nor  anguish  knoTfn,  of  human  birth, 

That  yieldeth  not  to  faith  and  prayer. 

IN  the  basement  of  a  rear  building  in  one  of  those  cross 
streets  that  grow  more  and  more  squalid  as  they  stretch  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  sat  an  aged  couple,  at  nightfall,  on  the  day 
when  our  humble  heroine  was  presented  to  the  reader.  The 
room  was  damp,  low  and  dark  ;  a  couple  of  rude  chairs,  a  deal 
table,  and  a  long  wooden  chest  were  all  th£  furniture  it  con 
tained.  A  rough  shelf  ran  over  the  mantel-piece,  on  which  were 
arranged  a  half  dozen  unmatched  cups  and  saucers,  and  a  bro 
ken  plate  or  two,  and  a  teapot,  minus  half  its  spout,  all 
scrupulously  washed,  and  piled  together  with  some  appearance 
of  ostentation. 

A  brown  platter,  which  stood  on  the  table,  contained  the 
only  approach  to  food  that  the  humble  dwelling  afforded.  A 
bone  of  bacon  thrice  picked,  and  preserved  probably  from  a 
wretched  desire  to  possess  something  in  the  shape  of  food,  though 
that  something  was  but  a  mockery,  this  and  a  fragment  of  bread 
lay  upon  the  platter,  covered  with  a  neat  crash  towel. 

A  straw  bed  made  up  on  one  corner  of  the  floor  partook  of 
the  general  neatness  everywhere  visible  in  the  wretched  dwel 
ling;  the  sheets  were  of  homespun  linen,  such  as  our  Down  East 
house-wives  loved  to  manufacture  years  ago,  and  the  covering 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  27 

a  patch-work  quilt,  formed  of  rich,  old-fashioned  chintz,  was 
neatly  turned  under  the  edges.  One  might  have  known  how 
more  than  precious  was  that  fine  old  quilt,  by  the  great  care 
taken  to  preserve  it.  The  whole  apartment  bespoke  extreme 
poverty  in  its  most  respectable  form.  Perfect  destitution  and 
scrupulous  neatness  were  so  blended,  that  it  made  the  heart 
ache  with  compassion. 

The  old  couple  drew  their  seats  closer  together  on  the  hearth 
stone,  and  looked  wistfully  in  each  other's  faces  as  the  darkness 
of  coming  night  gathered  around  them.  The  bright  morning 
had  been  succeeded  by  a  chill,  uncomfortable  rain,  and  this 
increased  tenfold  the  gloomy  and  dark  atmosphefe  of  the  base 
ment.  Thus  they  sat  gazing  at  each  other,  and  listening  moodily 
to  the  rain  as  it  beat  heavier  and  heavier  upon  the  sidewalks. 

"Come,  come  1"  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  smile  that  she 
intended  to  be  cheerful,  but  which  was  only  a  wan  reflection  of 
what  she  wished.  "This  is  all  very  wrong ;  once  to-day  the 
Lord  has  sent  us  food,  and  here  we  are  desponding  again.  Julia 
will  be  cold  and  wet,  poor  thing ;  don't  let  her  find  us  looking 
so  hungry  when  she  conies  in." 

"I  was  thinking  of  her,"  muttered  the  old  man,  in  a  sad 
voice.  "  Yes,  the  poor  thing  will  be  cold  and  wet  and  wretched 
enough,  but  that  is  nothing  to  the  disappointment ;  she  had 
built  up  such  hopes  this  morning." 

"  Well,  who  knows  after  all ;  something  may  have  happened !" 
said  the  old  woman,  with  an  effort  at  hopefulness. 

"  No,  no,"  replied  the  man,  in  a  voice  of  touching  despon 
dency,  "  if  she  had  done  anything,  the  child  would  have  been 
home  long  ago.  She  has  no  heart  to  come  back." 

The  old  man  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  then  flung  a 
handful  of  chips  and  shavings  on  the  fire  from  a  scant  pile  that 
lay  in  a  corner.  The  blaze  flamed  up,  revealing  the  desolate 
room  for  a  moment,  and  then  died  away,  flashing  over  the  pale 
and  haggard  faces  that  bent  over  it,  with  a  wan  brilliancy  that 
made  them  look  absolutely  corpse-like. 

Those  two  wrinkled  faces  were  meagre  and  wrinkled  from 


28  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

lack  of  sustenance  ;  still,  in  the  faded  lineaments  there  was 
nothing  to  revolt  the  heart.  Patience,  sweet  and  troubled  af 
fection,  were  blended  with  every  grief-written  line.  But  the 
wants  of  the  body  had  stamped  themselves  sharply  there.  The 
thin  lips  were  pale  and  fixed  in  an  expression  of  habitual  endu 
rance.  Their  eyes  were  sharp  and  eager,  dark  arches  lay 
around  them,  and  these  were  broken  by  wrinkles  that  were  not 
all  of  age. 

As  the  flame  blazed  up,  the  old  man  turned  and  looked  ear 
nestly  on  his  wife,  a  look  of  keen  want,  of  newly  whetted  hun 
ger  broke  from  her  eyes,  naturally  so  meek  and  tranquil,  and 
the  poor  old  nuin  turned  his,  glance  another  way  with  a  faint 
groan.  It  was  a  picture  of  terrible  famine.  Yet  patience  and 
affection  flung  a  thrilling  beauty  over  it. 

One  more  furtive  glance  that  old  man  cast  on  his  wife,  as 
the  flame  went  down,  and  then  he  clasped  his  withered  fingers, 
wringing  them  together. 

"  You  are  starving— »you  are  more  hungry  than  ever,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  have  nothing  to  give  you." 

The  poor  woman  lifted  up  her  head  and  tried  to  smile,  but 
the  effort  was  heart-rending. 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  said,  "but  the  food  we  had  this  morning 
only  seems  to  make  me  more  hungry.  Is  it  so  with  you,  Ben 
jamin  ?  I  keep  thinking  of  it  all  the  time.  The  rain  as  it 
plashes  on  the  pavement  seems  like  that  warm  coffee  boiling 
over  on  the  hearth  j  those  shavings  as  they  lie  in  the  corner  are 
constantly  shifting  before  my  eyes,  and  seem  like  rolls  and 
twists  of  bread,  which  I  have  only  to  stoop  forward  and  take." 

The  old  man  smiled  wanly,  and  a  tear  started  to  his  eyes, 
gliding  down  his  cheek  in  the  dim  light. 

"  Let  us  try  the  bone  once  more,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  si 
lence,  "  there  may  be  a  morsel  left  yet." 

"  Yes,  the  bone  !  there  may  be  something  on  the  bone  yet  1 
In  our  good  fortune  this  morning  we  must  have  forgotten  to 
scrape  it  quite  clean  !"  cried  the  old  woman,  starting  up  with 
ea^er  haste,  and  bringing  the  platter  from  the  table. 


. 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  29 


The  husband  took  it  from  her  hands,  and  setting  it  down  be 
fore  the  fire,  knelt  on  one  knee,  and  began  to  scrape  the  bone 
eagerly  with  a  knife.  "  See,  see  !"  he  said,  with  a  painful  ef 
fort  at  cheerfulness,  as  some  strips  and  fragments  fell  on  the 
platter,  leaving  the  bone  white  and  glistening  like  ivory.  "  This 
is  better  than  I  expected  ?  With  a  crust  and  a  cup  of  clear 
cold  water,  it  will  go  a  good  way." 

"  Ko,  no,"  said  the  woman,  turning  her  eyes  resolutely  away, 
"  we  had  forgotten  Julia.  She  scarcely  ate  a  mouthful  this 
morning  !" 

"  I  know,"  said  the  old  man,  dropping  his  knife  with  a  sigh. 

"  Put  it  aside,  and  let  us  try  and  look  as  if  we  had  been  eat 
ing  all  day.  She  would  not  touch  it  if — if "  Here  the  good 

old  woman's  eyes  fell  upon  the  little  heap  of  food — those  pre 
cious  fragments  which  her  husband  had  scraped  together  with  his 
knife.  The  animal  grew  strong  within  her  at  the  sight  ;  she 
drew  a  long  breath,  and  reaching  forth  her  bony  hand,  clutched 
them  like  a  bird  of  prey  ;  her  thin  lips  quivered  and  worked 
with  a  sort  of  ferocious  joy,  as  she  devoured  the  little  morsel, 
then,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  voracity,  she  lifted  her  glowing  eyes 
to  her  husband,  and  cast  the  fragment  of  food  still  between  her 
fingers  back  upon  the  platter. 

"  I  could  not  help  it !  Oh,  Benjamin,  I  could  not  help  it  1" 
Big  tears  started  in  her  eyes,  and  rolled  penitently  down  her 
cheek.  "  Take  it  away  I  take  it  away  I"  she  said,  covering  her 
face  with  both  hands.  "  You  see  how  ravenous  the  taste  of 
food  makes  me  1" 

"  Take  it  1"  said  the  old  man,  thrusting  the  platter  into  her 
lap. 

"  Xo  !  no!  You  haven't  had  a  taste;  you — you — I  am 
better  now,  much  better  1" 

For  one  instant  the  old  man's  fingers  quivered  over  the  mor 
sel  still  left  upon  the  platter,  for  he  was  famished  and  craving 
more  food,  even  as  his  wife  had  been ;  but  his  better  nature  pre 
vailed,  and  dashing  his  hand  away,  he  thrust  the  plate  more  de 
cidedly  into  her  lap. 


30  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

> 

"  Eat  I"  lie  said.  "  Eat !  I  can  wait,  and  God  will  take  care 
of  the  child  I" 

But  the  poor  woman  waved  the  food  away,  still  keeping  one 
hand  resolutely  over  her  eyes.  "  No — no  !"  she  said  faintly, 
"  no— no  1" 

Her  husband  lifted  the  plate  softly  from  her  lap  :  she  started, 
looked  eagerly  around,  and  sunk  back  in  her  chair  with  a  hys 
terical  laugh. 

"  The  strawberries  !  the  strawberries,  Benjamin  !  Only 
think,  if  Julia  could  not  sell  the  strawberries  she  will  eat  them, 
you  know,  all — all.  Only  think  what  a  feast  the  child  will 
have  when  she  has  all  those  strawberries  !  Bring  back  the 
meat ;  what  will  she  care  for  that  ?" 

The  old  man  brought  back  the  plate,  but  with  a  sorrowful 
look.  He  remembered  that  the  strawberries  entrusted  to  his 
grandchild  were  the  property  of  another  ;  but  he  could  not  find 
the  heart  to  suggest  this  to  the  poor  famished  creature  before 
him,  and  he  rejoiced  at  the  brief  delusion  that  would  induce  her 
to  eat  the  little  that  was  left.  With  martyr-like  stoicism  he 
stifled  his  own  craving  hunger,  and  sat  by  while  his  wife  de 
voured  the  remainder  of  the  precious  store. 

"  And  you  have  had  none,"  she  said,  with  a  piteous  look  of 
self-reproach,  when  her  own  sharp  want  was  somewhat  ap 
peased. 

"  Oh,  I  can  wait  for  Julia  and  the  strawberries." 

"And.  if  that  should  fail,"  answered  the  poor  wife,  filled  with 
remorse  at  her  selfishness,  or  what  she  began  to  condemn  as 
such,  "if  anything  should  have  happened,  you  may  pawn  or 
sell  the  quilt  to-morrow — I  will  say  nothing  against  it — not  a 
word.  It  was  used  for  the  first  time  when — when  she  was  a 
baby,  and — " 

"And  we  have  starved  and  suffered  rather  than  part  with 
it  1"  cried  the  old  man,  moving  gloomily  up  and  down  the  room, 
"  while  she—" 

"Is  dead  and  buried,  I  ani  afraid,"  said  the  woman,  inter 
rupting  him. 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  31 

"No,"  answered  the  old  man,  solemnly,  "or  we  should  not 
have  been  left  behind.  It  is  not  for  nothing,  wife,  that  you 
and  I,  and  her  child  too,  have  starved  and  pined,  and  prayed 
in  this  cellar.  God  has  an  end  to  accomplish,  and  we  are  His 
instruments  ;  how,  I  cannot  tell  It  is  dark,  as  yet ;  but  all  in 
His  good  time,  His  work  will  be  done.  Let  us  be  patient." 

"Patient!"  said  the  old  woman,  dolefully;  "I  haven't 
strength  to  be  anything  but  patient." 

"  She  will  yet  return  to  us — our  beautiful  prodigal — our  lost 
child,"  continued  the  old  man,  lifting  his  meek  eyes  heavenward 
"We  have  waited  long ;  but  the  time  will  come." 

"If  I  could  only  think  so,"  said  the  woman,  shaking  her  head 
drearily — "  If  I  could  but  think  so  1" 

"I  know  it,"  said  the  old  man,  lifting  his  clasped  hands 
upward,  while  his  face  glowed  with  the  holy  faith  that  was  in 
him ;  "God  has  filled  my  soul  with  this  belief.  It  has  given 
me  life  when  food  was  wanting.  It  grows  stronger  with  each 
breath  that  I  draw.  The  time  will  come  when  I  shall  be  called 
to  redeem  our  child,  even  to  the  laying  down  of  life,  it  may  be. 
I  sometimes  had  a  thought,  wife,  that  her  regeneration  will  be 
thus  accomplished." 

""How?    What  do  you  mean  to  say,  husband  ?" 

"How,  I  cannot  tell  that;  but  the  God  of  heaven  will,  in 
His  own  good  time.  Let  us  wait  and  watch." 

"  Oh  !  if  she  comes  at  last,  I  could  be  so  patient !  But  think 
of  the  years  that  are  gone,  and  no  news,  not  a  word.  While 
we  have  suffered  so  much,  every  month,  more  and  more — ah, 
husband,  how  can  I  be  patient  ?" 

"Wait,"  said  the  old  man,  solemnly  ;  "keep  still  while  God 
does  his  work.  We  know  that  our  child  has  committed  a  great 
sin  ;  but  she  was  good  once,  and — " 

"  Oh,  how  kind,  how  good  she  was  !  I  think  she  was  more 
like  an  angel  than  any  thing  on  earth,  till  he  came." 

"Hush!  When  he  is  mentioned,  bitter  wrath  rises  in  my 
bosom  ;  I  cannot  crush  it  out — I  cannot  pray  it  out.  God  help 
me  1  Oh,  my  God,  help  me  to  hear  this  one  name  with  charity," 


32  FASHION      AND      FAMINE, 

"  Benjamin — my  husband  I"  cried  the  old  woman,  regarding- 
the  strong  anguish  in  his  face  with  affright,  as  his  uplifted  hands 
shook  in  their  tight  grip  on  each  other,  and  his  whole  frame 
began  to  tremble. 

He  did  not  heed  her  pathetic  cry,  but  sat  down  again  by  the 
hearth,  and  with  a  thin  hand  pressed  hard  upon  each  knee,  bent 
forward,  gazing  into  the  smouldering  fire,  gloomy  and  silent. 
The  old  woman  stole  one  hand  over  his  and  pressed  it  gently. 
It  returned  no  answering  token  of  her  sympathy,  but  still  rigidly 
held  its  grasp  on  his  knee. 

Again  she  touched  his  hand,  and  the  loved  name,  that  had 
been  so  sweet  to  her  in  youth,  filled  his  ear  with  pathetic  ten 
derness. 

"  Benjamin  I" 

He  lifted  his  head,  looked  earnestly  in  her  face,,  and  then 
sunk  slowly  to  his  knees.  With  his  locked  hands  pressed  down 
upon  the  hearth,  and  his  head  bent  low  like  one  preparing  to 
cast  off  a  heavy  weight,  he  broke  forth  in  a  prayer  of  such  stern, 
passionate  entreaty,  that  the  very  storm  seemed  to  pause  and  Ms- 
ten  to  the  outbreak  of  a  soul  more  impetuous  than  itself.  Never 
in  God's  holiest  temple  has  the  altar  been  sanctified  by  a  prayer, 
more  full  of  majestic  eloquence,  than  that  which  rose  from  the 
hearth  of  the  miserable  cellar  that  night.  The  old  man  truly 
wrestled  with  the  angels,  and  called  for  help  against  his  own  rebel 
lious  nature,  till  his  forehead  was  beaded  with  drops  of  anguish, 
and  every  word  seemed  to  burn  and  quiver  like  fire  upon  his 
meagre  lips. 

She,  in  her  weaker  and  more  timid  nature,  fell  down  by  his 
side,  pouring  faint  ejaculations  and  low  moans  into  the  cur 
rent  of  his  eloquence.  But  while  he  prayed  for  strength  t& 
endure,  for  divine  light  by  which  he  could  tread  on  beneath  the 
burden  of  life,  she  now  and  then  brtfke  forth  into  a  moaning 
cry,  which  was, 

"  Bread  1  bread  !  oh  God,  give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread  P 

All  at  once,  in  the  midst  of  his  pleading,  the  old  man's  voice 
broke  ;  a  glorious  smile  spread  over  his  features,  and  dropping 


FASHION      AND      FA.MINE.  33 

his  forehead  between  both  hands,  he  murmured  in  the  fulness  of 
a  heart  suddenly  deluged  with  love, 

"  Oh,  my  God,  I  thank  thee,  thou  hast  indeed  rendered  me 
worthy  to  redeem  our  child  I" 

Then  he  arose  feebly  from  his  knees,  and  sat  down  with  her 
withered  hand  in  his,  and  gazed  tranquilly  on  the  sparks  of  fire 
that  shot,  at  intervals,  through  the  black  shaving  ashes. 

"  Wife,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  so  changed  from  its  sharp 
accents,  that  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  in  wonder;  "wife,  you 
may  speak  of  him  now,  God  has  given  me  strength  ;  I  can  hear 
it  without  a  vengeful  wish." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  mention  his  name,  I  didn't  mean  to  do 
it,  then,"  answered  the  wife  with  a  shudder. 

"You  see,"  rejoined  Father  Warren,  with  a  grave,  sweet 
smile,  "  You  see,  wife,  how  long  the  Lord  has  been  chastening 
us  before  he  would  drive  the  fiend  from  my  heart.  How  could 
I  expect  God  to  make  me  the  instrument  to  save  our  child  while 
this  hate  of  her  husband  lay  coiled  up  like  a  viper  in  my  bosom  ?" 

"And  did  you  hate  him  so  terribly  ?"  she  asked,  not  able  to 
comprehend  the  strength  of  a  nature  like  his. 

"Hate!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  "did  you  not  see  how  1 
toiled  and  wrestled  to  cast  that  hate  out  from  my  soul  ?" 

"Yes,  I  saw,"  answered  the  wife,  timidly,  and  they  sunk  into 
silence.  Thus  minutes  stole  on  ;  the  rain  came  down  more  furi 
ously  ;  the  winds  shook  the  loose  window  panes,  and  the  fire 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  only  shedding  a  smoky  gloom  over 
those  two  pale  faces. 

All  at  once  there  came  a  faint  noise  in  the  area — the  moist 
plash  of  a  footstep  mingled  with  the  sound  of  falling  rain. 
Then  the  outer  door  opened,  admitting  a  gush  of  damp  wind 
into  the  hall  that  forced  back  the  door  of  the  basement,  and 
there  stood  little  Julia  Warren,  panting  for  breath,  but  full  of 
wild  and  beautiful  animation.  The  rain  was  dripping  from  her 
hood,  and  down  the  heavy  braids  of  her  hair,  and  her  little  feet 
left  a  wet  print  on  the  floor  at  every  step. 

The  old  man  started  up,  and  flung  some  fresh  fuel  on  the  fire, 

2* 


34  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

which  instantly  filled  the  basement  with  a  brilliant  but  transi 
tory  light.  There  she  stood,  that  brave  little  girl,  dripping 
with  wet,  and  deluged  with  sudden  light.  Her  cheeks  were  all 
in  a  glow,  warm  and  wet,  like  roses  in  a  storm.  Her  eyes  were 
absolutely  star-like  in  their  brilliancy,  and  her  voice  broke 
through  the  room  in  a  joyful  gush  that  made  everything  cheer 
ful  again. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  lost,  grandpa,  or  drowned  in  the  rain 
— don't  it  pour,  though  ?  Here,  grandma,  come  help  me  with 
the  basket.  Stop,  till  I  light  a  candle,  though." 

The  child  knelt  down  in  her  dripping  garments  to  ignite  the 
candle,  which  she  had  taken  somewhere  from  the  depths  of  her 
basket.  But  her  little  hands  shook,  and  the  flame  seemed  to 
dance  before  her;  she  really  could  not  hold  the  candle  still  enough 
for  her  purpose,  that  little  form  thrilled  and  shook  so  with  her 
innocent  joy. 

"Here,  grandpa,  you  try,"  she  said,  surrendering  the  candle, 
while  her  laugh  filled  the  room  like  the  carol  of  birds,  when  all 
the  trees  are  in  blossom,  "I  never  shall  make  it  out ;  but  don't 
think,  now,  that  I  am  shivering  with  the  wet,  or  tired  out — • 
don't  think  anything  till  I  have  told  you  all  about  it.  There, 
now,  we  have  a  light ;  come,  come  !" 

The  little  girl  dragged  her  basket  to  the  hearth,  and  no  fairy, 
telling  down  gold  and  rubies  to  a  favorite,  ever  looked  more 
lovely.  Down  by  the  basket  the  old  grandparents  fell  upon 
their  knees — one  holding  the  light — the  other  crying  like  a 
child. 

"  See,  grandpa,  see  ;  a  beef-steak — a  great,  thick  beef-steak, 
and  pickles,  and  bread,  and — and — do  look,  grandmother,  this 
paper — what  do  you  think  is  in  it?  oh!  ha!  I  thought  you 
would  brighten  up!  tea,  green  tea,  and  sugar,  and-— why  grand 
father,  is  that  you  crying  so  ?  Dear,  dear,  how  can  you  ? 
Don't  you  see  how  happy  I  am?  Why,  as  true  as  I  live,  if  I 
ain't  crying  myself  all  the  time  !  Now,  ain't  it  strange ;  every 
one  of  us  crying,  and  all  for  what?  I — I  believe  I  shall  die, 
I'm  so  happy!" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  35 

The  excited  little  creature  dropped  the  paper  of  tea  from 
her  hands,  as  she  uttered  these  broken  words,  and  flinging  her 
self  on  the  old  woman's  bosom,  clung  to  her,  bathed  in  tears, 
and  shaking  like  an  aspen  leaf,  literally  strengthless  with  the  joy 
that  her  coming  had  brought  to  that  desolate  place. 

While  her  arms  were  around  the  poor  woman's  neck,  the 
grandmother  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  basket,  and  she  con 
trived  to  break  a  fragment  from  one  of  the  loaves  it  contained, 
and  greedily  devour  it  amid  those  warm  caresses. 

Joy  is  often  more  restless  than  grief ;  Julia  was  soon  on  her 
feet  again. 

"  There,  there,  grandmother  !  just  let  the  bread  alone ,  what 
is  that  to  the  supper  we  will  have  by-and-bye.  I'll  get  three 
cents'  worth  of  charcoal,  and  borrow  a  gridiron,  and — and — 
now  don't  eat  any  more  till  I  come  back,  because  of  the 
supper  ! " 

The  little  girl  darted  out  of  the  room  as  she  uttered  this  last 
injunction,  and  her  step  was  heard  like  the  leap  of  a  fawn,  as 
she  bounded  through  the  passage.  When  she  returned,  the 
larger  portion  of  a  loaf  had  disappeared,  and  the  old  couple  were 
in  each  other's  arms,  while  fragments  of  prayer  and  thanksgiv 
ing  fell  from  their  lips.  It  was  a  beautiful  picture  of  the  human 
heart,  when  its  holiest  and  deepest  feelings  are  aroused.  Grati 
tude  to  God  and  to  his  creatures  shed  a  touching  loveliness 
over  it  all. 

Julia,  with  her  bright  eyes  and  eager  little  hands,  bustled 
about,  quite  too  happy  for  a  thought  of  the  fatigue  she  had  en 
dured  all  the  day.  She  drew  forth  the  little  table.  She  fur 
bished  and  brightened  up  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  gave  an 
extra  rub  to  the  iron  candlestick,  which  was,  for  the  first  time 
in  many  a  day,  warmed  up  by  a  tall  and  snowy  candle.  The 
scent  of  the  beef-steak  as  it  felt  the  heat,  the  warm  hiss  of  the 
tea-kettle,  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  made  a  cheerful  accompani 
ment  to  her  quick  and  joyous  movements.  The  cold  rain  pat 
tering  without — the  light  gusts  of  wind  that  shook  the  windows, 
only  served  to  render  the  comfort  within  more  delightful. 


86  FASHION      AND      F  A  M  I  N  tf  . 

"  There  now,"  said  Julia,  wiping  the  bottom  of  her  broken- 
spouted  tea-pot,  and  placing  it  upon  the  table,  "  there  now,  all 
is  ready  !  Fm  to  pour  out  the  tea,  grandpa  must  cut  the  steak, 
and  you,  grandma — oh,  you  are  company  to-night.  Come,  every 
thing  is  warm  and  nice." 

The  old  people  drew  up  to  the  humble  board.  A  moment 
their  gray  heads  were  bent,  while  the  girl  bowed  her  forehead 
gently  downward,  and  veiled  her  eyes  with  their  silken  lashes, 
as  if  the  joy  sparkling  there  were  suddenly  clouded  by  a  thought 
of  her  own  forgetfulness  in  taking  a  seat  before  the  half- 
breathed  blessing  was  asked. 

But  her  heart  was  only  subdued  for  a  moment.  Directly  her 
hands  began  to  flutter  about  the  tea-pot,  like  a  pair  of  humming 
birds,  busy  with  some  great,  uncouth  flower.  She  poured  the 
rich  amber  stream  forth  with  a  dash,  and  as  each  lump  of  sugar 
fell  into  the  cups,  her  mouth  dimpled  into  fresh  smiles.  It  was 
quite  like  a  fairy  feast  to  her.  Too  happy  for  thoughts  of  her 
own  hunger,  she  was  constantly  dropping  her  knife  and  fork  to 
push  the  bread  to  her  grandfather,  or  heap  the  old  grandma's 
plate  afresh,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  broken  tea-pot  was  perfectly 
inexhaustible,  so  constantly  did  she  keep  it  circulating  around 
the  table. 

"  Isn't  it  nice,  grandma,  green  tea,  and  such  sugar.  What, 
grandpa  I  you  haven't  got  through  yet  ?"  she  was  constantly 
saying,  if  either  of  the  old  people  paused  in  the  enjoyment  of 
their  meal,  for  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  such  unusual  happiness 
ought  to  last  a  long,  long  time. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man  at  length,  pushing  back  his  plate  with 
a  pleasant  sigh,  and  more  pleasant  smile  ;  ''yes,  Julia;  now  let 
us  see  you  eat  something,  then  tell  us  how  all  these  things  came 
about.  You  must  have  been  very  lucky  to  have  earned  a  meal 
like  this  with  one  day's  work." 

"  A  meal  !"  cried  the  child  ;  "  oh,  the  supper.  You  relished 
the  supper,  grandpa  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  couldn't  have  guessed  how  hungry  we  were,  or 
how  keenly  we  should  have  relished  anything." 


FASHION     AND     FAMINE.  37 

'  "  But — but,  you  are  wondering  where  the  next  will  come 
from.  You  think  me  like  a  child  in  having  spent  so  much  in 
this  one  famous  supper/' 

"  Yes,  like  a  child,  a  good,  warm-hearted  child — who  could 
blame  you  ?" 

"  Blame  1"  cried  the  grandmother,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ; — 
"  blame  !  God  bless  her  1" 

"  But  then,"  said  the  child,  shaking  her  head  and  forcing  back 
a  tear  that  broke  through  the  sunshine  in  her  eyes,  "  one  should 
not  spend  everything  at  once  ;  grandpa  means  that,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Ko,  no  1"  answered  the  old  woman,  eagerly,  "he  does  not 
mean  to  find  the  least  fault.  How  should  he  ?" 

"  It  would  have  been  childish,  though  j  but  perhaps  I  should 
have  done  it,  who  knows  ? — one  don't  stop  to  think  with  a  bright 
half  dollar  in  one's  hand,  and  a  poor  old  grandfather  and  grand 
mother,  hungry  at  home.  But  then  look  here  1" 

The  child  drew  a  coin  from  her  bosom,  and  held  it  up  in  the 
candle-light. 

"  Gold  1"  cried  the  astonished  grandfather,  absolutely  turning 
pale  with  surprise. 

"  A  half  eagle,  a  genuine  half  eagle,  as  I  am  alive  !" 
exclaimed  the  old  woman,  taking  the  coin  between  her  fingers 
and  examining  it  eagerly. 

ff  Yes,  gold — a  half  eagle,"  said  the  exulting  child,  clasping 
her  small  hands  on  the  table,  "  worth  five  dollars — the  old 
woman  in  the  market  told  me  so  1 — five  dollars  !  only  think  of 
that  !" 

"  But  you  did  not  earn  it,"  said  the  old  man,  gravely. 

"  Earn  it — oh,  no,"  answered  the  little  girl  with  a  joyous 
laugh,  "  who  ever  thought  of  a  little  girl  like  me  earning  five 
dollars  in  a  day  ?  Still  I  don't  know.  That  good  woman  at 
the  market  told  me  to  let  every  one  give  what  he  liked  for  the 
flowers,  and  so  I  did.  The  most  beautiful  lady  you  ever  set 
e-jc?.,s  on,  took  a  bunch  of  rose-buds  from  my  basket,  and  flung 
that  money  in  its  place." 

"But  who  was   this   lady  ?     There   may  be  some  mistake. 


38  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

She  might  not  have  known  that  it  was  gold  I"  said  the  old  man, 
reaching  over,  and  taking  the  half  eagle  from  his  wife. 

"  I  think  she  knew ;  indeed  I  am  quite  sure  she  did/' 
answered  the  child,  "  for  she  looked  at  the  piece  as  she  took 
it  from  her  purse.  She  knew  what  it  was  worth,  but  I 
didn't." 

"  Well,  that  we  may  know  what  to  think,  tell  us  more  about 
this  wonderful  day,"  said  the  old  man,  still  examining  the  gold 
with  an  anxious  expression  of  countenance.  "Your  grand 
mother  has  finished  her  tea,  and  will  listen  now." 

Julia  was  somewhat  subdued  by  her  grandfather's  grave  air ; 
but  spite  of  this,  tears  and  smiles  struggled  in  her  eyes,  and  her 
mouth,  now  tremulous,  now  dimpling,  could  hardly  be  trained 
into  anything  like  serious  narrative. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  shaking  back  the  braids  of  her  hair,  and 
resolutely  folding  both  hands  in  her  lap.  "  Very  well  ;  please 
don't  ask  any  questions  till  I  have  got  through,  and  I'll  do  my 
best  to  tell  everything  just  as  it  happened.  You  know  how  I 
went  out  this  morning,  about  the  basket  that  I  got  trusted  for 
at  the  grocery,  and  all  that.  Well,  I  went  off  with  the  new 
basket  on  my  arm,  making  believe  to  myself  as  bold  as  a  lion. 
Still  I  couldn't  but  just  keep  from  crying — everything  felt  so 
strange,  and  I  was  frightened  too — you  don't  know  how  fright 
ened  ! 

"  Grandma,  I  think  the  babes  in  the  woods  must  have  felt  as  I 
did,  only  I  had  no  brother  with  me,  and  it  is  a  great  deal  more 
lonesome  to  wander  through  lots  of  cold  looking  men  and 
women  that  you  never  saw  before,  than  to  be  lost  among  the 
green  woods,  where  flowers  lie  everywhere  in  the  moss,  and 
the  trees  are  all  sorts  of  colors,  with  birds  hopping  and 
singing  about — dear  little  birds,  such  as  covered  the  poor 
babes  with  leaves,  and — and — finally  grandmother,  as  I 
was  saying,  I  felt  more  lonesome  and  down-hearted  than  these 
children  could  have  done,  for  they  had  plenty  of  blackberries,  you 
know,  but  I  was  dreadful  hungry — I  was  indeed,  though  I  would 
not  own  it  to  you  ;  and  then  all  the  windows  were  full  of  nice 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  39 

tarts  and  candies,  just  as  if  the  people  had  put  them  there  to 
see  how  bad  they  could  make  me  feel.  Well,  I  have  told  you 
about  going  into  the  market,  and  how  my  heart  seemed  to  get 
colder  and  colder,  till  I  saw  that  good  woman — that  dear, 
blessed  woman " 

"God  bless  her,  for  that  one  kind  act  1"  exclaimed  the  old 
man,  fervently. 

"  He  will  bless  her  ;  be  sure  of  that,"  chimed  in  the  good 
grandame. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her — I  only  wish  you  could  !" 
cried  the  child,  in  her  sweet,  eager  gratitude,  "perhaps  you  will 
some  day,  who  knows  ?" 

And  in  the  same  sweet,  disjointed  language,  the  child  went 
on  relating  her  adventures  along  the  streets,  and  on  the  wharf, 
where  for  the  first  time  she  had  seen  an  ocean  steamer. 

When  she  spoke  of  the  lady  and  her  strange  attendant,  the 
old  people  seemed  to  listen  with  more  absorbing  interest.  They 
were  keenly  excited  by  the  ardent  admiration  expressed  by  the 
child,  yet  to  themselves  even  this  feeling  was  altogether  unac 
countable.  When  the  little  girl  spoke  of  the  strange  man  whom 
she  had  met  on  the  wharf  also,  her  voice  become  subdued,  and 
there  was  a  half  terrified  look  in  her  eyes.  The  singular  impres 
sion  which  that  man  had  left  upon  her  young  spirit  seemed  to 
haunt  it  like  a  fear  ;  she  spoke  almost  in  whispers,  and  looked 
furtively  toward  the  door,  as  if  afraid  of  being  overheard  ;  but 
the  moment  she  related  how  he  drove  away  with  his  beautiful 
companion,  her  courage  seemed  to  return,  she  glanced  brightly 
around,  and  went  on  with  her  narrative  with  renewed  spirit. 

"He  had  just  gone,"  she  said,  "and  I  was  beginning  to  look 
around  for  some  way  to  leave  the  wharf,  when  I  saw  a  handker 
chief  lying  at  my  feet.  The  carriage  wheel  had  run  over  it,  and 
it  was  crushed  down  in  the  mud.  I  picked  it  up,  and  run  after 
the  carriage,  for  the  handkerchief  was  fine  as  a  cobweb,  and 
worth  ever  so  much,  I  dare  say.  In  and  out,  through  the  carts, 
and  trunks,  and  people,  I  ran  with  my  basket  on  my  arm,  and 
the  muddy  handkerchief  in  one  hand.  Twice  I  saw  the  carriage, 


40  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

but  it  was  too  far  ahead,  and  at  last  I  turned  a  corner — I 
lost  it  there,  and  stood  thinking  what  I  should  do,  when  the  very 
carriage  which  I  had  seen  go  off  with  the  lady  in  it,  passed  by  ; 
the  lady  had  stopped  for  something,  I  suppose,  and  that  kept 
her  back.  She  was  looking  from  the  window  that  minute.  I 
thought  perhaps  the  handkerchief  was  hers,  after  all ;  so  I  ran 
off  the  sidewalk  and  shook  it,  that  she  might  take  notice.  The 
carriage  stopped;  down  came  the  driver  and  opened  the  door, 
and  then  the  lady  leaned  out,  and  smiling  with  a  sort  of  mourn 
ful  smile,  said — 

"'Well,  my  girl,  what  do  you  want  now?'" 

"I  held  up  the  handkerchief,  but  was  quite  out  of  breath,  and 
could  only  say,  '  this — this — is  it  yours,  ma'am  ?' 

"She  took  the  handkerchief,  and  turned  to  a  corner  where  a 
name  was  marked.  Then  her  cheek  turned  pale  as  death,  and 
her  mouth,  so  full,  so  red,  grew  white.  I  should  have  thought 
that  she  was  dying,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  me  so  wildly. 

" '  Come  in,  come  in,  this  instant,'  she  said,  and  before  I  could 
speak,  she  caught  hold  of  my  arm,  and  drew  me — basket  and 
all — into  the  carriage.  The  door  was  shut,  and  in  my  fright  I 
heard  her  tell  the  man  to  drive  fast.  I  did  not  speak;  it  seemed 
like  dreaming.  There  sat  the  lady,  so  pale,  so  altered,  with  the 
handkerchief,  all  muddy  as.it  was,  crushed  hard  in  her  white 
hand — sometimes  looking  with  a  sort  of  wild  look  at  me,  some 
times  seeming  to  think  of  nothing  on  earth.  The  carriage  went 
faster  and  faster ;  I  was  frightened  and  began  to  cry.  She 
looked  at  me  very  kindly  then,  and  said — 

"  '  Hush,  child,  hush  !  no  one  will  harm  you.'  Still  I  could 
not  keep  from  sobbing,  for  it  all  seemed  very  wild  and 
strange. 

"  Then  the  carriage  stopped  before  a  great  stone  house,  with 
so  many  long  windows,  and  iron-work  fence  all  before  it.  A 
good  many  trees  stood  around  it,  and  a  row  of  stone  steps  went 
up  half  way  from  the  gate  to  the  front  door.  The  windows  of 
the  house  were  painted  all  sorts  of  colors,  and  at  one  corner 
was  a  kind  of  steeple,  square  at  the  top  and  full  of  narrow 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  41 

windows,  and  half  covered  with  a  green  vine  that  crept  close 
to  the  stone-work  almost  to  the  top. 

"  No  one  came  to  the  door.  The  strange  man  who  rode  with 
the  driver  let  us  in  with  a  key  that  he  had,  and  everything  was 
as  still  as  a  meeting-house.  When  we  got  inside,  the  lady  took 
my  hand  and  led  me  into  a  great  square  entry-way,  with  a 
marble  floor  checked  black  and  white  ;  then  she  led  me  up  a 
great  high  stair-case,  covered  from  top  to  bottom  with  a  carpet 
that  seemed  made  of  roses  and  wood-moss.  Everything  was 
still  and  half  dark,  for  all  the  windows  were  covered  deep  with 
silk  curtains,  and  it  had  begun  to  cloud  up  out  of  doors. 

"  The  lady  opened  a  door,  and  led  me  into  a  room  more 
beautiful  that  anything  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on.  But  this  was 
dark  and  dim  like  the  rest.  My  feet  sunk  into  the  carpet,  and 
everything  I  touched  seemed  made  of  flowers,  the  seats  were  so 
silken  and  downy. 

"  The  lady  flung  off  hec  shawl,  and  sat  down  upon  a  little 
sofa  covered  with  blue  silk.  She  drew  me  close  to  her,  and 
tried  to  smile. 

" '  Now/  she  said,  '  you  must  tell  me,  little  girl,  exactly  where 
you  got  the  handkerchief  P 

"  '  I  found  it — indeed  I  found  it  on  the  wharf/  I  said,  as  well 
as  I  could,  for  crying.  '  At  first  I  thought  it  must  belong  to 
the  tall  gentleman,  but  he  drove  away  so  fast ;  then  I  saw  your 
carriage,  and  thought ' 

"  She  stopped  me  before  I  could  say  the  rest — her  eyes  were 
as  bright  as  diamonds,  and  her  cheeks  grew  red  again. 

"  '  The  tall  gentleman  !     What  tall  gentleman  V  she  said. 

"  I  told  her  about  the  man  with  the  beautiful  lady.  Before 
I  had  done,  she  let  go  of  my  hand  and  fell  back  on  the  sofa  ; 
her  eyes  were  shut,  but  down  through  the  black  lashes  the 
great  tears  kept  rolling  till  the  silk  cushion  under  her  head  was 
wet  with  them.  I  felt  sorry  to  see  her  so  troubled,  and  took 
the  handkerchief  from  the  floor — for  it  fell  from  her  hand  as  sho 
sunk  down.  With  one  corner  that  the  wheel  had  not  touched, 
I  tried  to  wipe  away  the  tears  from  her  face,  but  she  started  up, 


42  FASHION      AND      FAMINE 


all  in  a  tremble,  and  pushed  me  away  ;  but  not  as  if  she  were 
angry  with  me  ;  only  as  if  she  hated  the  handkerchief  to  touch 
her  face. 

"  She  walked  about  the  room  a  few  times,  and  then  seemed 
to  get  quite  natural  again.  By-and-bye  the  queer  looking  man 
came  up  with  a  satchel  and  a  silver  box,  under  his  arm  ;  and  she 
talked  with  him  in  a  low  voice.  He  seemed  not  to  like  what 
she  said  ;  but  she  grew  positive,  and  he  went  out.  Then  she 
lay  down  on  the  sofa  again,  as  if  I  had  not  been  by  ;  her  two 
hands  were  clasped  under  her  head  ;  she  breathed  very  hard, 
and  the  tears  now  and  then  came  in  drops  down  her  cheeks. 

"  It  was  getting  dark,  and  I  could  hear  the  rain  pattering  out 
side.  I  spoke  softly,  and  said  that  I  must  go  ;  she  did  not  seem  to 
hear  ;  so  I  waited  and  spoke  again.  Still  she  took  no  notice. 
Then  I  took  up  my  basket  and  went  out.  Nobody  saw  me.  The 
great  house  seemed  empty — everything  was  grand,  but  so  still 
that  it  made  me  afraid.  Nothing  but  the  rain  dripping  from 
the  trees  made  the  least  noise.  All  around  was  a  garden,  and 
the  house  stood  mostly  alone,  among  the  trees  on  the  top  of  a 
hill  and  lifted  up  from  the  street.  I  had  no  idea  where  I  was, 
for  it  seemed  almost  like  the  country,  trees  all  around,  and  green 
grass  and  rose  bushes  growing  all  about  the  house  ! 

"  A  long  wide  street  stretched  down  the  hill  toward  the  city. 
I  noticed  the  street  lamp  posts  standing  in  a  line  each  side,  and 
just  followed  them  till  I  got  into  the  thick  of  the  houses  once 
more.  After  this  I  went  up  one  street  and  down  another,  in 
quiring  the  way,  till  after  a  long,  long  walk,  I  got  back  to  the 
market,  quite  tired  out  and  anxious. 

"The  good  market  woman  was  so  pleased  to  see  me  again. 
I  gave  her  all  my  money,  and  she  counted  it,  and  took  out  pay 
for  the  flowers  and  strawberries.  There  was  enough  without 
•the  gold  piece  ;  she  would  not  let  me  change  that,  but  filled  the 
basket  with  nice  things,  just  to  encourage  me  to  work  hard  next 
week.  There,  now,  grandfather,  I  have  told  you  all  about  this 
wonderful  day.  Isn't  it  quite  like  a  fairy  tale?" 

The  old  man  sat  gazing  on  the  sweet  and  animated  face  of  hia 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  43 

grandchild ;  his  hands  were  clasped  upon  the  table,  and  his  aged 
face  grew  luminous  with  Christian  gratitude.  Slowly  his  fore 
head  bent  downward,  and  he  answered  her  in  the  solemn  and 
beautiful  words  of  Scripture,  "I  have  been  young,  and  now  I  am 
old ;  yet  I  have  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  or  his  seed 
begging  bread."  There  was  pathos  and  fervency  in  the  old 
man's  voice,  solemn  even  as  the  words  it  syllabled.  The  little 
strawberry  girl  bowed  her  head  with  gentle  feeling,  and  the 
grandmother  whispered  a  meek  "Amen." 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE     LONE     MANSION. 

There  are  some  feelings  all  too  deep, 

For  grief  to  shake,  or  torture  numb, 
Sorrows  that  strengthen  as  they  sleep, 

And  struggle  though  the  heart  is  dumb. 

LITTLE  Julia  Warren  had  given  a  very  correct  description  of 
the  house  to  which  she  had  been  so  strangely  conveyed.  Grand, 
imposing,  and  unsurpassed  for  magnificence  by  anything  known 
in  our  city,  it  was  nevertheless  filled  with  a  sort  of  gorgeous 
gloom  that  fell  like  a  weight  upon  the  beholder.  Most  of  the 
shutters  were  closed,  and  where  the  glass  was  not  painted,  rich 
draperies  muffled  and  tinted  the  light  wherever  it  penetrated  a 
crevice,  or  struggled  through  the  reversed  fold  of  a  blind. 

As  you  passed  through  those  sumptuous  rooms,  so  vast,  so 
still,  it  seemed  like  traversing  a  flower-garden  by  the  faintest 
starlight;  you  knew  that  beautiful  objects  lay  around  you  on 
every  side,  without  the  power  of  distinguishing  them,  save  in 
shadowy  masses.  All  this  indistinctness  took  a  strong  hold  on  the 
imagination,  rendered  more  powerful,  perhaps,  by  the  profound 
stillness  that  reigned  in  the  dwelling. 


44  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

Since  the  great  front  door  had  fallen  softly  to  its  latch,  after 
the  little  girl  left  the  building,  no  sound  had  broken  the  intense 
hush  that  surrounded  it.  Still  the  lady,  who  had  so  marvcl- 
ously  impressed  herself  upon  the  heart  of  that  child,  lay  prone 
upon  the  couch  in  her  boudoir  in  the  second  story.  She  was 
the  only  living  being  in  that  whole  dwelling,  and  but  for  the 
quick  breath  that  now  and  then  disturbed  her  bosom,  she 
appeared  lifeless  as  the  marble  Flora  that  seemed  scattering  lilies 
over  the  cushion  where  she  rested. 

After  a  time  the  stillness  seemed  to  startle  her.  She  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  around  the  room. 

"Gone!"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment,  which  had 
something  of  impatience  in  it — "gone!" 

The  lady  started  up,  pale  and  with  an  imperious  motion,  as 
one  whose  faintest  wish  had  seldom  been  opposed.  She 
approached  a  window,  and  flinging  back  the  curtains  of  azure 
damask,  cast  another  searching  look  over  the  room.  But  the 
pale,  sweet  features  of  the  Flora  smiling  down  upon  her  lilies, 
was  the  only  semblance  to  a  human  being  that  met  her  eye. 
She  dropped  the  curtain  impatiently.  The  statue  seemed  mock 
ing  her  with  its  cold,  classic  smile.  It  suited  her  better  when 
the  wind  came  with  a  sweep,  dashing  the  rain-drops  fiercely 
against  the  window. 

The  irritation  which  this  sound  produced  on  her  nerves  seemed 
to  animate  her  with  a  keen  wish  to  find  the  child  who  had  dis 
appeared  so  noiselessly.  She  went  to  the  door,  traversed  the 
hall  and  the  great  stair-case  ;  and  her  look  grew  almost  wild 
when  she  found  no  signs  of  the  little  girl !  Two  or  three  times 
she  parted  her  lips,  as  if  to  call  out  ;  but  the  name  that  she  would 
have  uttered  clung  to  her  heart,  and  the  parted  lips  gave  forth 
no  sound. 

It  was  strange  that  a  name,  buried  in  her  bosom  for  years, 
unuttered,  hidden  as  the  miser  hides  his  gold,  at  once  the  joy, 
and  agony  of  his  life,  should  have  sprung  to  her  memory  there  and 
then  ;  but  so  it  was,  and  the  very  attempt  to  syllable  that  name 
seemed  to  freeze  up  the  animation  in  her  face.  She  grew  much 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  45 

paler  after  that,  and  her  white  fingers  clung  to  the  silver  knob 
like  ice  as  she  opened  the  great  hall-door  and  looked  into  the 
street.  * 

The  entrance  to  the  mansion  was  sheltered,  and  though  the 
rain  was  falling,  it  had  not  yet  penetrated  to  the  threshold.  Up 
and  down  the  broad  street  no  object  resembling  the  strawberry 
girl  could  be  seen  ;  and  with  an  air  of  disappointment,  the  lady 
was  about  to  close  the  door,  when  she  saw  upon  the  threshold 
a  broken  rose-bud,  which  had  evidently  fallen  from  the  child's 
basket,  and  beside  it  the  prints  of  a  little,  naked  foot  left  in 
damp  tracery  on  the  granite.  These  foot-prints  descended  the 
steps,  and  with  a  sigh  the  lady  drew  back,  closing  the  door 
after  her  gently  as  she  had  opened  it. 

She  stood  awhile  musing  in  the  vestibule,  then  slowly  mount 
ing  the  stairs,  entered  the  boudoir  again.  She  sat  down,  but  it 
was  only  for  a  minute  ;  the  solitude  of  the  great  house  might 
have  shaken  the  nerves  of  a  less  delicate  woman,  now  that  the 
rain  was  beating  against  the  windows,  and  the  gloom  thicken 
ing  around  her,  but  she  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  this.  Some 
new  idea  had  taken  possession  of  her  mind,  and  it  had  power  to 
arouse  her  whole  being.  She  paced  the  room,  at  first  gently, 
then  with  rapid  footsteps,  becoming  more  and  more  excited  each 
moment ;  though  this  was  only  manifested  by  the  brilliancy  of 
her  eyes,  and  the  breathless  eagerness  with  which  she  listened 
from  time  to  time.  No  sound  came  to  her  ears,  however — no 
thing  but  the  rain  beating,  beating,  beating  against  the  plate- 
glass. 

The  lady  took  out  her  watch,  and  a  faint,  mocking  smile  stole 
over  her  lips.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  been  expecting  the  re 
turn  of  her  servant  for  hours  ;  and  lo  !  only  half  an  hour  had 
passed  since  he  went  forth. 

"  And  this,"  she  said,  with  a  gesture  and  look  of  self-reproach 
— "  this  is  the  patience — this  the  stoicism  which  I  have  attained 
— Heaven  help  me  !"  She  walked  slower  then,  and  at  length 
sunk  upon  the  couch  with  her  eyes  closed  resolutely,  as  one  who 
forced  herself  to  wait  and  be  still.  Thus  she  remained,  perhaps 


46  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

fifteen  minutes,  and  the  marble  statue  smiled  upon  her  through 
its  chill,  white  flowers.  4 

She  had  wrestled  with  herself  and  conquered.  So  much  time  ! 
Only  fifteen  minutes,  but  it  seemed  an  hour.  She  opened  her 
eyes,  and  there  was  that  smiling  face  of  marble  peering  down 
into  hers  ;  it  seemed  as  if  something  human  were  scanning  her 
heart.  The  fancy  troubled  her,  and  she  began  to  walk  about 
again. 

As  the  lady  was  pacing  to  and  fro  in  her  boudoir,  her  foot 
became  entangled  in  the  handkerchief  which  she  had  so  passion 
ately  wrested  from  the  strawberry-girl,  when  in  her  gentle  sym 
pathy  the  child  would  have  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  She 
took  the  cambric  in  her  hand,  not  without  a  shudder  ;  it  might 
be  of  pain  ;  it  might  be  that  some  hidden  joy  blended  itself  with 
the  emotion  ;  but  with  an  effort  at  self-control  she  turned  to  a 
corner  of  the  handkerchief,  and  examined  a  name  written  there 
with  attention. 

Again  some  powerful  change  of  feeling  seemed  to  sweep  over 
her  ;  she  folded  the  handkerchief  with  care,  and  went  out  of 
the  room,  still  grasping  it  in  her  hand.  Slowly,  and  as  if  impelled 
against  her  wishes,  this  singular  woman  mounted  a  flight  of 
serpentine  stairs,  which  wound  up  the  tower  that  Julia  had 
described  as  a  steeple,  and  entered  a  remote  room  of  the 
dwelling.  Even  here  the  same  silent  splendor,  the  same  magni 
ficent  gloom  that  pervaded  the  whole  dwelling,  was  darkly  risi 
ble.  Though  perfectly  alone,  carpets  thick  as  forest  moss 
muffled  her  foot-steps,  till  they  gave  forth  no  echo  to  betray  her 
presence.  Like  a  spirit  she  glided  on,  and  but  for  her  breath 
ing  she  might  have  been  taken  for  something  truly  supernatural, 
so  singular  was  her  pale  beauty,  so  strangely  motionless  were 
her  eyes. 

For  a  moment  the  lady  paused,  as  "if  calling  up  the  locality 
of  some  object  in  her  mind,  then  she  opened  the  door  of  a 
small  room  and  entered. 

A  wonderful  contrast  did  that  little  chamber  present  to  the 
splendor  through  which  she  had  just  passed.  No  half  twilight 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  47 

reigned  there  ;  no  gleams  of  rich  coloring  awoke  the  imagina 
tion  ;  everything  was  chaste  and  almost  severe  in  its  simplicity. 
Half  a  shutter  had  been  left  open,  and  thus  a  cold  light  was 
admitted  to  the  chamber,  revealing  every  object  with  chilling 
distinctness  : — the  white  walls  ;  the  faded  carpet  on  the  floor  ; 
and  the  bed  piled  high  with  feathers,  and  covered  with  a  patch 
work  quilt  pieced  from  many  gorgeously  colored  prints,  now 
somewhat  faded  and  mellowed  by  age.  Half  a  dozen  stiff  maple 
chairs  stood  in  the  room.  In  one  corner  was  a  round  mahogany 
stand,  polished  with  age,  and  between  the  windows  hung  a 
looking-glass  framed  in  curled  maple.  No  one  of  these  articles 
bore  the  slightest  appearance  of  recent  use,  and  common-place 
as  they  would  have  seemed  in  another  dwelling,  in  that  house 
they  looked  mysteriously  out  of  keeping. 

The  lady  looked  around  as  she  entered  the  room,  and  her  face 
expressed  some  new  and  strong  emotion  ;  but  she  had  evidently 
schooled  her  feelings,  and  a  strong  will  was  there  to  second  every 
mental  effort.  After  one  quick  survey  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
carpet.  It  was  an  humble  fabric,  such  as  the  New  England 
housewives  manufacture  with  their  own  looms  and  spinning 
wheels  ;  stripes  of  hard,  positive  colors  contrasted  harshly  to 
gether,  and  even  time  had  failed  to  mellow  them  into  harmony  ; 
though  faded  and  dim,  they  still  spread  away  from  the  feet 
harsh  and  disagreeable.  No  indifferent  person  would  hare 
looked  upon  that  cheerless  object  twice  ;  but  it  seemed  to  fasci 
nate  the  gaze  of  the  singular  woman,  as  no  artistic  combina 
tion  of  colors  could  have  done.  Her  eyes  grew  dim  as  she 
gazed  ;  her  step  faltered  as  she  moved  across  the  faded  stripes ; 
and  reaching  a  chair  near  the  bed,  she  sunk  upon  it  pale  and 
trembling.  The  tremor  went  off  after  a  few  minutes,  but  her 
face  retained  its  painful  whiteness,  and  she  fell  into  thought  so 
deep  that  her  attitude  took  the  repose  of  a  statue. 

Thus  an  hour  went  by.  The  storm  had  increased,  and 
through  the  window  which  opened  upon  a  garden,  might  be  seen 
the  dark  sway  of  branches  tossed  by  the  roaring  wind,  and 
blackened  with  the  gathering  night.  The  rain  poured  down  in 


48  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

sheets,  and  beat  upon  the  spacious  roof  like  the  rattle  of  artil 
lery.  Gloom  and  commotion  reigned  around.  The  very  ele 
ments  seemed  vexed  with  new  troubles  as  that  beautiful  woman 
entered  the  room  whose  humble  simplicity  seemed  so  unsuited  to 
her. 

Ada  saw  nothing  of  the  storm,  or  if  she  did,  the  wildncss  and 
gloom  seemed  but  a  portion  of  the  tumult  in  her  own  heart. 
Yet  how  still  and  calm  she  was — that  strange  being  !  At 
length  the  chain  of  iron  thought  seemed  broken  ;  she  turned  to 
ward  the  bed,  laid  her  hand  gently  down  upon  the  quilt,  and  gazed 
at  the  faded  colors  till  some  string  in  her  proud  heart  gave  way, 
and  sinking  down  with  her  face  buried  in  the  scant  pillows,  she 
wept  like  a  child.  Every  limb  in  her  body  began  to  tremble. 
The  bed  shook  under  her,  and  notwithstanding  the  stormy  ele 
ments,  the  noise  of  her  bitter  sobs  filled  the  room.  The  voice 
of  her  grief  was  soon  broken  by  another  sound — the  sound  of 
passionate  kisses  lavished  upon  the  pillows,  the  quilt,  and  the 
homespun  linen  upon  the  bed.  She  looked  at  them  through 
her  tears  ;  she  smoothed  them  out  with  her  trembling  hands  ; 
she  laid  her  cheek  against  them  lovingly,  as  a  punished  child 
will  sometimes  caress  the  very  garments  of  a  mother  whose 
forgiveness  it  craves  ;  yet  in  all  this  you  saw  that  this  strange, 
almost  insane  excitement  was  not  usual  to  the  woman — that  she 
was'  not  one  to  yield  her  strength  to  a  light  passion  ;  and  this 
made  her  grief  the  more  touching.  You  felt  that  if  such  storms 
often  swept  across  her  track  of  life,  she  did  not  bow  herself  to 
them  without  a  fierce  struggle. 

She  lay  upon  the  be-3.  weeping  and  faint  with  exhausted  emo 
tion,  when  the  sound  of  a  closing  door  rang  through  the  build 
ing.  This  was  followed  by  stumbling  footsteps  so  heavy  that 
even  the  turf-like  carpets  could  not  muffle  them.  The  lady 
started  up,  listened  an  instant,  and  then  hurried  from  the  room, 
closing  the  door  carefully  after  her.  It  was  now  almost  dark, 
and  but  for  the  angular  figure  and  ungainly  attitude  of  the  per 
son  she  found  in  her  boudoir,  she  might  not  have  recognized  her 
own  servant,  who  stood  waiting  her  approach. 


FASHION     AND      FAMINE.  49 

i 

"  Jacob,  you  have  come — well !"  said  the  lady  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  and  a  pretty  time  I  have  had  of  it,"  said  the  man, 
drawing  back  from  the  hand  which  she  had  almost  placed  upon 
his  arm,  and  shaking  himself  with  much  of  the  surliness,  and  all 
the  indifference  of  a  mastiff,  till  the  rain  fell  in  showers  from  his 
coat.  "  I  am  soaking  wet,  ma'm,  and  dangerous  to  come  near — 
it  might  give  you  a  cold." 

"  It  is  raining  then  ?"  said  the  lady,  subduing  her  impa 
tience. 

"  Raining  !  I  should  think  it  was,  and  blowing  too.  Why, 
don't  you  hear  the  wind  yelling  and  tusseling  with  the  trees 
back  of  the  house  ?" 

"  I  have  not  noticed,"  answered  the  lady,  mournfully  j  "I 
was  thinking  of  other  things." 

"  Of  him,  I  suppose  !"  There  was  something  husky  in  the 
man's  voice  as  he  spoke,  the  more  remarkable  that  his  strong 
Down  East  pronunciation  was  usually  prompt,  and  clear  from 
any  signs  of  feeling. 

"  Yes,  of  him  and  of  them  !  Jacob,  this  has  been  a  terrible 
day  to  me." 

"  And  to  me,  gracious  knows  !"  muttered  the  man,  giving  his 
coat  another  rough  shake, 

"  Yes,  you  have  been  upon  your  feet  all  day — you  are  wet 
through,  my  kind  Mend,  and  all  to  serve  me — I  know  that  it  is 
hard  I" 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort  ! — nothing  of  the  sort  1  Who  on  earth 
complained,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  A  little  rain,  poh  !" 
exclaimed  the  man,  evidently  annoyed  that  his  vexation,  uttered 
in  an  under  tone,  should  have  reached  the  lady's  ear. 

"  No,  you  never  do  complain,  Jacob  ;  and  yet  you  have  often 
found  me  an  exacting  mistress — or  friend,  I  should  rather  say — 
for  it  is  long  since  I  have  considered  you  as  anything  else.  I 
have  often  taxed  your  strength  and  patience  too  far  !" 

"  There  it  is  again  I"  answered  the  man,  with  a  sort  of  rough 
impatience,  which,  however,  had  nothing  unkind  or  disrespect 
ful  in  it — "  jist  as  if  I  was  complaining  or  discontented— jist  as 

3 


50  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

if  I  wasn't  your  hired  man — no,  servant,  that  is  the  word — to 
serve,  wait,  tend  on  you  ;  and  hadn't  been  ever  since  the  day 
— but  no  matter  about  that — jist  now  I've  been  down  town  as 
you  ordered." 

"Well!" 

Oh  !  how  much  of  exquisite  self-control  was  betrayed  by  the 
low,  steady  tone  in  which  that  little  word  was  uttered. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  man,  "  I  could  do  nothing  without  help. 
The  little  girl's  story  was  enough  to  prove  that — that  he  was 
in  town,  but  it  only  went  so  far.  She  neither  knew  which  way 
he  drove,  or  how  the  coach  was  numbered  j  so  it  seemed  very 
much  like  searching  for  a  needle  in  a  hay-mow.  But  you  wanted 
to  know  where  he  was,  and  I  determined  to  find  out.  Wai, 
this  morning,  as  we  left  the  steamer,  I  saw  a  man  in  the  crowd 
with  a  great,  gilt  star  on  his  breast,  and  as  the  thing  looked 
rather  odd  for  a  republican,  I  asked  what  it  meant.  It  was  a 
policeman  ;  they  have  got  up  a  new  system  here  in  the  city,  it 
seems,  and  from  what  was  said  on  the  wharf,  I  thought  it  no 
bad  idea  to  get  some  of  these  men  to  help  me  to  search  for  Mr. 
Leicester." 

"  Hush,  hush  ;  don't  speak  so  loud,"  said  the  lady,  starting  as 
a  name  her  lips  had  not  uttered  for  years  was  thus  suddenly 
pronounced. 

"  I  inquired  the  way,  and  went  to  the  police  office  at  once  : 
it  is  in  the  Park,  ma'm,  under  the  City  Hall.  Wai,  there  I 
found  the  chief,  a  smart,  active  fellow  as  I  ever  set  eyes  on  ;  I 
told  him  what  brought  me  there,  and  who  I  wanted  to  find. 
He  called  a  young  man  from  the  out  room  ;  wrote  on  a  slip  of 
paper  ;  gave  it  to  the  man,  and  asked  me  to  sit  down.  Wai,  I 
sat  down,  and  we  began  to  talk  about  my  travels,  and  things  in 
gineral,  like  old  acquaintances,  till  by-and-bye  in  came  the  very 
policeman  that  I  had  seen  on  the  wharf. 

" '  Mr.  Johnson,'  says  the  chief,  '  a  Southern  vessel  arrived 
to-day  at  the  same  wharf  where  the  steamer  lies.  Did  you 
observe  a  tall  gentlemen  with  a  young  lady  on  his  arm,  leave 
that  vessel  1y 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  51 

"'Dark  hair;  large  eyes;  a  black  coat?'  says  the  man,  look 
ing  at  me. 

" '  Exactly,'  says  I. 

" ' The  lady  beautiful;  eyes  you  could  hardly  tell  the  color  of; 
lashes  always  down;  black  silk  dress;  cashmere  scarf ;  cottage- 
bonnet!'  says  he,  again. 

"'Jistso!'  says  I. 

"'Yes,'  says  he  to  the  chief,  'I  saw  them/ 

"'Where  did  they  go?'  questions  the  chief. 

" '  Hack  No.  117  took  three  fares  from  the  vessel  and  steamer, 
one  to  the  City  Hall,  one  to  the  New  York,  one  to  the  Astor. 
This  was  the  second,  he  went  to  the  Astor.'" 

"And  the  young  girl — did  she  go  with  him?"  cried  the  lady, 
striving  in  vain  to  conceal  the  keen  interest  which  prompted  the 
question. 

"That  was  just  what  the  chief  asked,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  the  answer — was  she  with  him?" 

"Wai,  the  chief  put  that  question,  only  a  little  steadier;  and 
the  man  answered  that  the  young  lady " 

"Well." 

"That  the  coachman  first  took  the  young  lady  to  a  house  in 
• — I  believe  it  was  Ninth  street,  or  Tenth,  or " 

"No  matter,  so  she  was  not  with  him,"  answered  the  lady, 
drawing  a  deep  breath,  while  an  expression  of  exquisite  relief 
came  to  her  features;  "  and  he  is  there  alone  at  the  Astor  House. 
And  I  in  the  same  city  !  Does  nothing  tell  him? — has  his  heart 
no  voice  that  clamors  as  mine  does?  The  Astor  House!  Jacob, 
how  far  is  the  Astor  House  from  this?" 

"  More  than  a  mile — two  miles.  I  don't  exactly  know  how 
far  it  is." 

"A  mile,  perhaps  two,  and  that  is  all  that  divides  us.  Oh! 
God,  would  that  it  were  all!"  she  cried,  suddenly  clasping  her 
hands  with  a  burst  of  wild  agony. 

The  servant  man  recoiled  as  he  witnessed  this  burst  of  pas 
sion,  wherefore  it  were  difficult  to  say;  for  he  remained  silent, 
and  the  twilight  had  gathered  fast  and  deep  in  the  room.  For 


52  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

several  minutes  no  word  was  spoken  between  the  two  persons 
BO  nnlike  in  looks,  in  mind,  in  station,  and  yet  linked  together 
by  a  bond  of  sympathy  strong  enough  to  sweep  off  these  ine 
qualities  into  the  dust.  At  length  the  lady  lifted  her  head, 
and  looked  at  the  man  almost  beseechingly  through  the  twi 
light. 

The  storm  was  still  fierce.  The  wind  shook  and  tore  through 
the  foliage  of  the  trees;  and  the  rain  swept  by  in  sheets,  now 
and  then  torn  with  lightning,  and  shaken  with  loud  bursts  of 
thunder. 

" The  weather  is  terrible!"  said  the  lady,  with  a  sad,  winning 
smile,  and  with  her  beautiful  eyes  bent  upon  the  man. 

He  thought  that  she  was  terrified  by  the  lightning,  and  this 
brought  his  kind  nature  back  again.  % 

"  This — oh  I  this  is  nothing,  madam.  Think  of  the  storms 
we  used  to  have  in  the  Alps,  and  at  sea." 

A  beautiful  brilliancy  came  into  the  lady's  eyes. 

"  True,  this  is  nothing  compared  to  them  :  and  the  evening, 
it  is  not  yet  entirely  dark  !" 

"  The  storm  makes  it  dark — that  is  all.  It  isn't  far  off  from 
sun-down  by  the  time  1"  answered  Jacob,  taking  out  an  old  sil 
ver  watch,  and  examining  it  by  the  window. 

"  Jacob,  are  you  very  tired  ?" 

"  Tired,  ma'm  !  What  on  earth  should  make  me  tired  ? 
One  would  think  I  had  been  hoeing  all  day,  to  hear  such 
questions  1" 

The  lady  hesitated.  She  seemed  ashamed  to  speak  again, 
and  her  voice  faltered  as  she  at  length  forced  herself  to  say — 

"  Then,  Jacob,  as  you  are  not  quite  worn  out — perhaps  you 
will  get  me  a  carriage — there  must  be  stables  in  the  neigh 
borhood." 

"  A  carriage  !"  answered  the  man,  evidently  overwhelmed 
with  surprise :  "a  carriage,  madam,  to-night,  in  all  this 
rain  !" 

"  Jacob — Jacob,  I  must  see  him — I  must  see  him  now,  to* 
night — this  hour  !  The  thought  of  delay  suffocates  me — I  am 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  53 

not  myself— do  you  not  see  it  ?  All  power  over  myself  is  gone. 
Jacob,  I  must  see  him  now,  or  die  I" 

"  But  the  storm,  madam,"  urged  poor  Jacob,  from  some 
cause  almost  as  pale  as  his  mistress. 

"The  better — all  the  better.  It  gives  me  courage.  How 
can  we  two  meot,  save  in  storm  and  strife  ?  I  tell  you  the 
tempest  will  give  me  strength." 

"I  beg  of  you,     I— I " 

"  Jacob,  be  kind — get  me  the  carriage  !"  pleaded  the  lady, 
gently  interrupting  him  :  "  urge  nothing  more,  I  entreat  you  ; 
but  instead  of  opposing,  help  me.  Heaven  knows,  but  for  you 
I  am  helpless  enough  I" 

There  was  no  resisting  that  voice,  the  pleading  eloquence  of 
those  eyes.  A  deep  sigh  was  smothered  in  that  faithful  breast, 
and  then  he  went  fofth  perfectly  heedless  of  the  rain  ;  which,  to 
do  him  justice,  had  never  been  considered  in  connection  with 
his  own  personal  comfort. 

He  returned  after  a  brief  absence  ;  and  a  dark  object  before 
the  iron  gate,  over  which  the  rain  was  dripping  in  streams,  be 
spoke  the  success  of  his  errand.  The  lady  had  meantime  changed 
her  dress  to  one  of  black  silk,  perfectly  plain,  and  giving  no  evi 
dence  of  position,  by  which  a  stranger  might  judge  to  what  class 
of  society  she  belonged  ;  a  neat  straw  bonnet  and  a  shawl  com 
pleted  her  modest  costume. 

"  I  am  ready,  waiting  !  "  she  cried,  as  Jacob  presented  him 
self  at  the  door,  and  drawing  down  her  veil  that  he  might  not 
see  all  that  was  written  in  her  face,  she  passed  him  and  went 
forth. 

But  Jacob  caught  one  glance  of  that  countenance  with  all  its 
eloquent  feeling,  for  a  small  lamp  had  been  lighted  in  the  bou 
doir  during  his  absence  ;  and  that  look  was  enough.  He 
followed  her  in  silence. 


54  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

CHAPTER    IY. 

THE     ASTOR     HOUSE     AND     THE     ATTIC     ROOM. 

When  woman  sinneth  with  her  heart, 

Some  trace  of  heaven  still  lingers  there ; 
The  angels  may  not  all  depart 

And  yield  her  up  to  dark  despair. 

But  man — alas,  when  thought  and  brain 

Can  sin,  and  leave  the  soul  at  ease : 
Can  sneer  at  truth  and  scoff  at  pain  !— 

God's  angels  shrink  from  sins  like  these  ! 

ALONE  in  one  of  the  most  sumptuous  chambers  of  the  Astor 
House,  sat  the  man  who  had  made  an  impression  so  powerful 
upon  little  Julia  Warren  that-  morning.  Though  the  chill  of 
that  stormy  night  penetrated  even  the  massive  walls  of  the 
hotel,  it  had  no  power  to  throw  a  shadow  upon  the  comforts 
with  which  this  man  had  found  means  to  surround  himself.  A 
fire  blazed  in  the  grate,  shedding  a  glow  upon  the  rug  where 
his  feet  were  planted,  till  the  embroidered  slippers  that  encased 
them  seemed  buried  in  a  bed  of  forest  moss. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  close,  and  the  whole  room  had  an 
air  of  snugness  and  seclusion  seldom  found  at  a  hotel.  Here 
stood  an  open  dressing-case  of  ebony,  with  its  gold  mounted 
and  glittering  equipments  exposed;  there  was  a  travelling  desk 
of  ebony,  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl,  opal-tinted  and  glitter 
ing  like  gems  in  the  uncertain  light.  Upon  the  mantel-piece 
stood  a  small  picture-frame,  carved  to  a  perfect  net-work,  and  ap 
parently  of  pure  gold,  circling  the  miniature  of  a  female,  so  exqui 
sitely  painted,  so  beautiful  in  itself,  that  the  heart  warmed  to  a 
glow  while  gazing  upon  it.  It  was  a  portrait  of  the  very 
girl  whom  Julia  had  seen  supported  by  that  man's  arm  in  the 
morning — new  and  fresh  was  every  tint  upon  the  ivory.  Alas  ! 
no  female  face  ever  had  time  to  grow  shadowy  and  mellow  in 
that  little  frame  j  with  almost  every  change  of  the  moon  some 


FASHION      A  N.D      FAMINE.  55 

new  head  was  circled  by  the  glittering  net-work — and  this  spoke 
eloquently  of  one  dark  trait  in  the  character  of  the  man. 

He  sat  before  the  fire,  leaning  back  in  his  cushioned  easy- 
chair,  now  glancing  with  an  indolent  smile  at  the  picture — now 
leaning  toward  a  small  table  at  his  elbow,  and  helping  himself 
to  the  fragments  of  some  tiny  game-birds  from  a  plate  where  sev 
eral  were  lying,  all  somewhat  mutilated,  as  if  he  had  tried  each 
without  perfectly  satisfying  his  fastidious  appetite.  Various 
foreign  condiments,  and  several  flasks  of  wine  stood  on  the  table, 
with  rich  china  and  glasses  of  unequal  shape  and  variously  tin 
ted.  For  at  the  hotel  this  man  was  known  to  be  as  fastidious 
in  his  taste  as  in  his  appetite  ;  with  him  the  appointments  of  a 
meal  were  equally  important  with  the  viands. 

No  lights  were  in  the  room,  save  two  wax  tapers  in  small 
candle-sticks  of  frosted  silver,  which,  with  various  articles  of 
plate  upon  the  table,  composed  a  portion  of  his  travelling  luxu 
ries.  If  we  have  dwelt  long  upon  these  small  objects,  it  is  be 
cause  they  bespoke  the  character  of  the  man  better  than  any 
philosophical  analysis  of  which  we  are  capable,  and  from  a  feel 
ing  of  reluctance  to  come  in  contact  with  the  hard  and  selfish, 
even  in  imagination. 

Oh  !  if  the  pen  were  only  called  upon  to  describe  the  pure 
and  the  good,  what  a  pleasant  task  might  be  this  of  authorship ; 
but  while  human  life  is  made  up  of  the  evil  and  the  good,  in 
order  to  be  true,  there  must  be  many  dark  shadows  in  every 
picture  of  life  as  it  exists  now,  and  has  existed  from  the  begin 
ning  of  the  world.  In  humanity,  as  in  nature  herself,  there  is 
midnight  darkness  contrasting  with  the  bright  and  pure  sun 
shine. 

There  was  nothing  about  the  person  of  Leicester  that  should 
make  the  task  of  describing  him  an  unpleasant  one.  He  had 
reached  the  middle  age,  at  least  was  fast  approaching  it :  and 
on  a  close  scrutiny,  his  features  gave  indication  of  more  advan 
ced  years  than  the  truth  would  justify  ;  for  his  life  had  been  one 
that  seldom  leaves  the  brow  smooth,  or  the  mouth  perfectly 
flexible.  Still  to  a  casual  observer,  Leicester  was  a  noble- 


56  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

looking  and  elegant  man.  The  dark  gloss  and  luxuriance  of 
his  hair  was  in  nothing  impaired  by  the  few  threads  of  silver 
that  begun  to  make  themselves  visible  ;  his  forehead  was  high, 
broad  and  white  ;  Ms  teeth  perfect,  and  though  the  lips  were 
somewhat  heavy,  the  smile  that  at  rare  intervals  stole  over 
them  was  full  of  wily  fascination,  wicked,  but  indescribably  allur 
ing.  That  smile  had  won  many  a  new  face  to  the  little  frame 
from  which  poor  Florence  Craft  seemed  to  gaze  upon  him  with 
mournful  tenderness.  • 

As  he  looked  upward  it  deepened,  spread  and  quivered  about 
his  mouth,  that  subtle  and  infatuating  smile.  There  was  some 
thing  of  tenderness,  something  of  indolent  scorn  blended  with 
it  then,  for  his  eyes  were  lifted  to  that  beautiful  face  gazing 
upon  him  so  immovably  from  the  ivory.  He  caught  the  mourn 
ful  expression,  cast,  perhaps,  by  the  position  of  the  candles, 
and  it  was  this  that  gave  a  new  character  to  his  smile.  He 
stretched  himself  languidly  back  in  his  chair,  clasped  both 
hands  behind  his  head,  and  still  gazed  upward  with  half  closed 
eyes. 

This  change  of.  position  loosened  the  heavy  cord  of  silk  with 
which  a  dressing-gown,  lined  with  crimson  velvet,  and  of  a  rich 
cashmere  pattern,  had  been  girded  to  his  waist,  thus  exposing 
the  majestic  proportions  of  a  person  strong,  sinewy  and  full  of 
flexible  vigor.  His  vest  was  off,  and  the  play  of  his  heart 
might  have  been  counted  through  the  fine  and  plaited  linen 
that  covered  his  bosom.  Something  more  than  the  rise  and 
fall  of  a  base  heart,  had  that  loosened  cord  exposed.  Protrud 
ing  from  an  inner  pocket  of  his  dressing-gown  the  inlaid  butt 
of  a  revolver  was  just  visible. 

Thus  surrounded  by  luxuries,  with  a  weapon  of  death  close 
to  his  heart,  William  Leicester  sat  gazing  with  half-shut  eyes 
upon  the  mute  shadow  that  returned  his  look  with  such  mourn 
ful  intensity.  At  length  the  smile  upon  his  lip  gave  place  to 
words  full  of  meaning,  treacherous  and  more  carelessly  cruel 
than  the  smile  had  foreshadowed. 

"Oh!  Flor,  Flor,"  he  said,  "  your  tune  will  soon  come.   This 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  57 


excessive  devotion — this  wild  love — it  t 
unskilful,  Flor — a  little  spice  of  the  evil-one — a  storin  oT&riger-— 
now  a  dash  of  indifference — anything  but  this  eternal  tender 
ness.  It  gets  to  be  a  bore  at  last,  Flor,  indeed  it  does." 

And  Leicester  waved  his  head  at  the  picture,  smiling  gently 
all  the  time.  Then  he  unsealed  one  of  the  wine-flasks,  filled  a 
glass  and  lifted  it  to  his  mouth.  After  tasting  the  wine  with  a 
soft,  oily  smack  of  the  lips,  and  allowing  a  few  drops  to  flow 
down  his  throat,  he  put  aside  the  glass  with  a  look  of  disgust, 
and  leaning  forward,  rang  the  bell. 

Before  his  hand  left  the  bell-tassel,  a  servant  was  at  the  door, 
not  in  answer  to  his  summons,  but  with  information  that  a  car 
riage  had  stopped  at  the  private  entrance,  and  that  some  one 
within  wished  to  speak  with  him. 

Leicester  seemed  annoyed.  He  drew  the  cords  of  his  dress 
ing-gown,  and  stood  up. 

"  Who  is  in  the  carriage  ?     What  does  he  seem  like,  John  ?" 

The  mulatto  smiled  till  his  teeth  glistened  in  the  candle 
light. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak,  fellow  ?" 

The  waiter  cast  a  shy  glance  toward  the  picture  on  the 
mantel-piece,  and  his  teeth  shone  again. 

"  The  night  is  dark  as  pitch,  sir  ;  I  couldn't  see  a  yard  from 
the  door  ;  but  I  heard  a  voice.  It  wasn't  a  man's  voice." 

"A  woman ! — in  all  this  storm  too.  Surely  she  cannot  have 
been  so  wild,"  cried  Leicester,  casting  aside  his  dressing-gown, 
and  hurriedly  replacing  it  with  garments  more  befitting  the  night, 
"  Go,  John,  and  say  that  I  will  be  down  presently,  and  listen 
as  you  give  the  message  ;  try  and  get  a  glimpse  of  the  lady." 

John  disappeared,  and  threaded  his  way  to  the  entrance  with 
wonderful  alacrity.  A  man  stood  upon  the  steps,  apparently 
indifferent  to  the  rain  that  beat  in  his  face.  By  changing  his 
position  he  might  have  avoided  half  the  violence  of  each  new 
gust,  but  he  seemed  to  feel  a  sort  of  pleasure  in  braving  it,  for 
a  stern  pallor  lay  upon  the  face  thus  steadily  turned  to  the 
storm. 

3* 


58  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

This  was  the  man  who  had  first  spoken  to  the  servant,  but 
instead  of  addressing  him,  John  was  passing  to  the  carriage, 
intent  on  learning  something  of  its  inmate.  But  as  he  went 
down  the  steps  a  strong  grasp  was  fixed^  on  his  arm,  and  he 
found  himself  suddenly  wheeled,  face  to  face,  with  the  powerful 
man  upon  the  upper  flag. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  voice  that  made  the  mu 
latto  shake. 

"I  was  going  to  the  carriage,  sir,  with  Mr.  Leicester's  mes 
sage  to  the — the "  Here  John  began  to  stammer,  for  he 

felt  the  grasp  upon  his  arm  tighten  like  a  vice. 

"I  sent  for  Mr.  Leicester  to  come  down;  give  me  his 
answer!" 

"Yes — yes,  sir,  certainly.  Mr.  Leicester  will  be  down  in  a 
minute,"  stammered  John,  shaking  the  rain  from  his  garments, 
and  drawing  back  to  the  doorway  the  moment  he  was  released, 
but  casting  a  furtive  glance  into  the  darkness,  anxious,  if  pos 
sible,  to  learn  something  of  the  person  in  the  carriage. 

That  moment,  as  if  to  reward  his  vigilance,  the  carriage  win 
dow  was  let  down,  and  by  the  faint  light  that  struggled  from 
the  lanterns,  the  mulatto  saw  a  white  hand  thrust  forth;  and  a 
face  of  which  he  could  distinguish  nothing,  save  that  it  was 
very  pale,  and  lighted  by  a  pair  of  large  eyes  fearfully  brilliant, 
gleamed  on  him  through  the  illuminated  mist. 

"What  is  it?  Will  he  not  come?  Open  the  door — open 
the  door,"  cried  a  voice  that  rang  even  through  his  inert  heart. 

It  was  a  female's  voice,  full  and  clear,  but  evidently  excited 
to  an  unnatural  tone  by  some  powerful  feeling. 

Again  the  mulatto  attempted  to  reach  the  carriage. 

"  Madam — Mr.  Leicester  will " 

Before  the  sentence  was  half  uttered,  the  mulatto  found  him 
self  reeling  back  against  the  door,  and  the  man  who  hurled 
him  there,  darted  down  the  steps. 

"  Shut  the  window — sit  further  back,  for  gracious'  sake." 

"  Is  he  coming?    Is  he  here?"  was  the  wild  rejoinder. 


FASHION    AND    FAMINE.  50 

"  He  is  coming;  but  do  be  more  patient." 

"I  will — I  will!"  cried  the  lady,  and  without  another  word 
she  drew  back  into  the  darkness. 

Meanwhile  the  mulatto  found  his  way  back  to  the  chamber, 
where  Mr.  Leicester  was  waiting  with  no  little  impatience. 
The  very  imperfect  report  which  he  was  enabled  to  give,  relieved 
Leicester  from  his  first  apprehension,  and  excited  a  wild  spirit 
of  adventure  in  its  place. 

"Who  in  the  name  of  Heaven  can  it  be?"  broke  from  him  as 
he  was  looking  for  his  hat.  "The  face,  John,  you  saw  the 
face,  ha!" 

"Only  something  white,  sir;  and  the  eyes — such  eyes,  largo 
and  shining — a  great  deal  brighter  than  the  lamp,  that  was 
half  put  out  by  the  rain!" 

"It  cannot  be  Florence,  that  is  certain,"  muttered  Leicester, 
as  he  took  up  his  dressing-gown  from  the  floor  and  transferred 
the  revolver  to  an  inner  pocket  of  his  coat — "some  old  tor 
ment,  perhaps,  or  a  new  one.  Well,  I'm  ready." 

Leicester  found  the  carriage  at  the  entrance,  its  outlines  only 
defined  in  the  surrounding  darkness  by  the  pale  glimmer  of  a 
lamp,  whose  companion  had  been  extinguished  by  the  rain. 
Upon  the  steps,  but  lower  down,  and  close  by  the  carriage, 
stood  the  immovable  figure  of  that  self  constituted  sentinel.  As 
Leicester  presented  himself,  on  the  steps  above,  this  man  threw 
open  the  carriage  door,  but  kept  his  face  turned  away,  even 
from  the  half  dying  lamp-light. 

Leicester  saw  that  he  was  expected  to  enter;  but  though 
bold,  he  was  a  cautious  man,  and  for  a  moment  held  back  with 
a  hand  upon  his  revolver. 

"  Step  in — step  in,  sir,"  said  the  man,  who  still  held  the  door; 
"  the  rain  will  wet  you  to  the  skin." 

"  Who  wishes  to  see  me? — what  do  you  desire?"  said  Leices 
ter,  with  one  foot  oh  the  steps.  "  I  was  informed  that  a  lady 
waited.  Is  she  within  the  carriage?" 

A  faint  exclamation  broke  from  the  carriage,  as  the  sound  of 
his  voice  penetrated  there. 


60  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"Step  in,  sir,  at  once,  if  you  would  be  Bafe!"  was  the  stern 
answer. 

"  I  am  always  safe/7  was  the  haughty  reply,  and  Leicester 
touched  his  side  pocket  significantly. 

"You  are  safe  here.  Indeed,  indeed  you  are!"  cried  a  sweet 
and  tremulous  voice  from  the  carriage.  "In  Heaven's  name, 
step  in,  it  is  but  a  woman." 

He  was  ashamed  of  the  hesitation  that  might  have  been 
misunderstand  for  cowardice,  and  sprang  into  the  vehicle.  The 
door  was  instantly  closed ;  another  form  sprang  up  through  the 
darkness  and  placed  itself  by  the  driver.  The  carriage  dashed 
off  at  a  rapid  pace,  for,  drenched  in  that  pitiless  rain,  both 
horses  and  driver  were  impatient  to  be  housed  for  the  night. 

Within  the  carriage  all  was  profound  darkness.  Leicester 
had  placed  himself  in  a  corner  of  the  back  seat.  He  felt  that 
some  one  was  by  his  side  shrinking  back  as  if  in  terror  or  greatly 
agitated.  It  was  a  female,  he  knew  by  the  rustling  of  a  silk 
dress — by  the  quick  respiration — by  the  sort  of  thrill  that  seemed 
to  agitate  the  being  so  mysteriously  brought  in  contact  with 
him.  His  own  sensations  were  strange  and  inexplicable ;  accus 
tomed  to  adventure,  and  living  in  intrigue  of  one  kind  or  another 
continually,  he  entered  into  this  strange  scene  with  absolute 
trepidation.  The  voice  that  had  invited  him  into  the  carriage 
was  so  clear,  so  thrillingly  plaintive,  that  it  had  stirred  the  very 
core  of  his  heart  like  an  old  memory  of  youth,  planted  when 
that  heart  had  not  lost  all  feeling. 

He  rode  on  then  in  silence,  disturbed  as  he  had  not  been  for 
many  a  day,  and  full  of  confused  thought.  His  hearing  seemed 
unusually  acute.  Notwithstanding  the  rain  that  beat  noisily 
on  the  roof,  the  grinding  wheels,  and  loud,  splashing  tread  of 
the  horses,  he  could  hear  the  unequal  breath  of  his  companion 
with  startling  distinctness.  Nay,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  very 
beating  of  a  heart  all  in  tumult  reached  his  ear  also  :  but  it  was 
not  so.  That  which  he  fancied  to  be  the  voice  of  another  soul, 
was  a  powerful  intuition  knocking  at  his  own  heart. 

Leicester  had  not  attempted  to  speak ;  his  usual  cool  self-posses 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  61 

sion  was  lost.  His  audacious  spirit  seemed  shamed  down  in 
that  unknown  presence.  But  this  was  not  a  state  of  things  that 
•could  exist  long  with  a  man  so  bold  and  so  unprincipled.  After 
the  carriage  had  dashed  on,  perhaps  ten  minutes,  he  thought 
how  singular  this  silence  must  appear,  and  became  ashamed  of 
it.  Even  in  the  darkness  he  smiled  in  self  derision  ;  a  lady  had 
called  at  his  hotel — had  taken  him  almost  per  force  into  her 
.carriage — was  he  to  sit  there  like  a  great  school-boy,  without 
one  gallant  word,  or  one  effort  to  obtain  a  glimps*$$0|  the  face 
of  his  captor  ?  He  almost  laughed  as  this  thought  of  his  late 
awkward  confusion  presented  itself.  All  his  audacitySreturned, 
and  with  a  tone  of  half  jeering  gallantry  he  drew  close*:  to  the 
lady. 

"  Sweet  stranger,"  he  said,  "  this  seems  a  cold  reception  for 
your  captive.  If  one  consents  to  be  taken  prisoner  on  a  stormy 
night  like  this,  surely  he  may  expect  at  least  a  civil  word." 

He  had  drawn  close  to  the  lady,  her  hand  lay  in  his  cold  as 
ice.  Her  breath  floated  over  his  cheek — that,  too,  seemed 
chilly,  but  familiar  as  the  scent  of  a  flower  beloved  in  child 
hood.  There  was  something  in  the  breath' that  brought  that 
strange  sensation  to  his  heart  again.  He  was  silent — the  gal 
lant  words  seemed  freezing  in  his  throat.  The  hand  clasped  in 
his  grew  warmer,  and  began  to  tremble  like  a  half  frozen  bird 
taking  life  from  the  humane  bosom  that  has  given  it  shelter. 
Again  he  spoke,  but  the  jeering  tone  had  left  his  voice.  He 
felt  to  his  innermost  soul  that  this  was  no  common  adventure, 
that  the  woman  by  his  side  had  some  deeper  motive  than  idle 
romance  or  ephemeral  passion  for  what  she  was  doing. 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  harmonious  with  gentle  respect, 
"  at  least  tell  me  why  I  am  thus  summoned  forth.  Let  me 
hear  that  voice  again,  though  in  this  darkness  to  see  your  face 
is  impossible.  It  seemed  to  me  that  your  voice  was  familiar. 
Is  it  so  ?  Have  we  ever  met  before  ?" 

The  lady  turned  her  head,  and  it  seemed  that  she  made  an 
effort  to  speak  ;  but  a  low  murmur  only  met  his  ear,  followed 
by  a  sob,  as  if  she  was  gasping  for  words. 


62  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

With  the  insidious  tenderness  which  made  this  man  so  danger 
ous,  he  threw  his  arm  gently  around  the  strangely  agitated 
woman,  not  in  a  way  to  arouse  her  apprehensions  had  she  been 
the  most  fastidious  being  on  earth,  but  respectfully,  as  if  he  felt 
that  sTie  required  support.  She  was  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  He  uttered  a  few  soothing  words,  and  bending  down, 
kissed  her  forehead.  Then  her  head  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  Her  being  seemed  shaken  to 
its  very  centre  ;  she  murmured  amid  her  tears  soft  words  too 
low  for  him  to  hear.  Her  hand  wove  itself  around  his  tighter 
and  more  passionately  ;  she  clung  to  him  like  a  deserted  child 
restored  to  its  mother's  bosom. 

Libertine  as  he  was,  Leicester  could  not  misunderstand  the 
agitation  that  overwhelmed  the  stranger.  It  aroused  all  the 
sleeping  romance — all  the  vivid  imagination  of  his  nature  ;  un 
principled  he  certainly  was,  but  not  altogether  without  feeling. 
Surprise,  gratified  vanity,  nay,  some  mysterious  influence  of 
which  he  was  unaware,  held  the  deep  evil  of  his  nature  in  abey 
ance.  Strange  as  this  woman's  conduct  had  been,  wild,  incom 
prehensible  as  it  certainly  was,  he  could  not  think  entirely  ill  of 
her.  He  would  have  laughed  at  another  man  in  his  place,  had 
he  entertained  a  doubt  of  her  utter  worthlessness  ;  but  there  she 
lay  against  his  heart,  and  spite  of  that,  spite  of  a  nature  always 
ready  to  see  the  dark  side  of  humanity,  he  could  not  force 
himself  to  treat  her  with  disrespect.  After  all,  there  must  have 
been  some  few  sparks  of  goodness  in  that  man's  heart,  or  he  could 
not  so  well  have  comprehended  the  better  feelings  of  another. 

She  lay  thus  weeping  and  passive,  circled  by  his  arm  ;  her 
tears  seemed  very  sweet  and  blissful.  Now  and  then  she  drew 
a  deep,  tremulous  sigh,  but  no  words  were  uttered.  At  length 
he  broke  the  spell  that  controlled  her  with  a  question. 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  now,  why  you  came  for  me,  and  your 
name  ?  If  not  that,  say  where  we  have  ever  met  before  ?" 

She  released  herself  gently  from  his  arm  af  these  words,  and 
drew  back  to  a  corner  of  the  seat.  He  had  aroused  her  from 
the  sweetest  bliss  ever  known  to  a  human  heart.  This  one  ino 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  63 

ment  of  delusion  was  followed  by  a  memory  of  who  she  was,  and 
why  she  sought  him,  so  bitter  and  sharp  that  it  chilled  her 
through  and  through.  There  was  no  danger  that  he  could 
recognize  her  voice  then,  even  if  he  had  known  it  before. 
Nothing  could  be  more  faint  and  changed  than  the  tone  in 
which  she  answered — 

"  In  a  little  time  you  shall  know  all." 

He  would  have  drawn  her  toward  him  again,  but  she  resisted 
the  effort  with  gentle  decision  ;  and,  completely  lost  in  wonder, 
he  waited  the  course  this  strange  adventure  might  take. 

The  horses  stopped  before  some  large  building,  but  even  the 
outline  was  lost  in  that  inky  darkness  ;  something  more  gloomy 
and  palpable  than  the  air  loomed  before  them,  and  that  was  all 
Leicester  could  distinguish.  He  sat  still  and  waited. 

The  carriage  door  was  opened  on  the  side  where  the  female 
sat,  and  some  words  passed  between  her  and  a  person  outside, 
but  she  leaned  forward,  and  had  her  tones  been  louder,  they 
would  have  been  drowned  by  the  rain  dashing  over  the  carriage. 
The  man  to  whom  she  had  spoken  closed  the  door  and  seemed 
to  mount  a  flight  of  steps.  Then  followed  the  sound  of  an 
opening  door,  and  after  that  a  gleam  of  light  now  and  then 
broke  through  a  chink  in  that  black  mass,  up  and  up,  till  far 
over  head  it  gleamed  through  the  blinds  of  a  window,  revealing 
the  casement  and  nothing  more. 

Again  the  carriage  door  was  opened.  The  lady  arose  and 
was  lifted  out.  Leicester  followed,  and  without  a  word  they 
both  went  through  an  iron  gate  and  mounted  the  granite  steps 
of  a  dwelling.  The  outer  door  stood  open,  and,  taking  his  hand, 
she  led  him  through  the  profound  darkness  of  what  appeared  to 
be  a  spacious  vestibule.  Then  they  ascended  a  flight  of  stairs 
winding  up  and  up,  as  if  confined  within  a  tower  ;  a  door  was 
opened,  and  Leicester  found  himself  in  a  small  chamber,  furnished 
after  a  fashion  common  to  country  villages  in  New  England,  but 
so  unusual  in  a  large  city  that  it  made  him  start. 

We  need  not  describe  this  chamber,  for  it  is  one  with 
which  the  reader  is  already  acquainted.  The  woman  who  now 


64  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

stood  upon  the  faded  carpet,  over  which  the  rain  dripped  from 
her  cloak,  had  visited  it  before  that  day. 

One  thing  seemed  strange  and  out  of  keeping.  A  small  lamp 
that  stood  upon  the  bureau  was  of  silver,  graceful  in  form,  and 
ornamented  with  a  wreath  of  flowers  chased  in  frosted  silver,  and 
raised  from  the  surface  after  a  fashion  peculiar  to  the  best  ar 
tists  of  Europe.  Leicester  was  a  connoisseur  in  things  of  this 
kind,  and  his  keen  eye  instantly  detected  the  incongruity  between 
this  expensive  article  and  the  cheap  adornments  of  the  room. 

"  Some  waiting  maid  or  governess,"  he  thought,  with  a  sensa 
tion  of  angry  scorn,  for  Leicester  was  fastidious  even  in  his  vices. 
"  Some  waiting-maid  or  governess  who  has  borrowed  the  lamp 
from  her  mistress'  drawing-table  ;  faith  !  the  affair  is  getting 
ridiculous  I" 

When  Leicester  turned  to  look  upon  his  companion,  all  the 
arrogant  contempt  which  this  thought  had  given  to  his  face  still 
remained  there.  But  the  lady  could  not  have  seen  it  distinctly ; 
she  had  thrown  off  her  cloak,  and  stood  with  her  veil  of  black 
lace,  so  heavily  embroidered  that  no  feature  could  be  recognized 
through  it,  grasped  in  her  hand,  as  if  reluctant  to  fling  it  aside. 
She  evidently  trembled  from  head  to  foot :  and  even  through 
the  heavy  folds  of  her  veil,  he  felt  the  thrilling  intensity  of  the 
gaze  she  fixed  upon  him. 

The  look  of  scornful  disappointment  left  his  face  ;  there  was 
something  imposing  in  the  presence  of  this  strange  being  that 
crushed  his  suspicions  and  his  sneers  at  once.  Enough  of  per 
sonal  beauty  was  revealed  in  the  superb  proportions  of  her  form 
to  make  him  more  anxious  for  a  view  of  her  face.  He  advanced 
toward  her  eagerly,  but  still  throwing  an  expression  of  tender 
respect  into  his  look  and  manner.  They  stood  face  to  face — she 
lifted  her  veil. 

He  started,  and  a  look  of  bewilderment  came  upon  his  face. 
Those  features  were  familiar,  so  familiar  that  every  nerve  in  his 
strong  frame  seemed  to  quiver  under  the  partial  recognition. 
She  saw  that  he  did  not  fully  recognize  her,  and  flinging  away 
both  shawl  and  bonnet,  stood  before  him. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  65 

He  knew  her  then  I  You  could  see  it  in  the  look  of  keen 
surprise — in  the  color  as  it  crept  from  his  lips — in  the  ashy  pallor 
of  his  cheek.  It  was  not  often  that  this  strong  man  was  taken 
by  surprise.  His  self-possession  was  marvellous  at  all  times  ;  but 
now,  even  the  lady  herself  did  not  seem  more  profoundly  agi 
tated.  She  was  the  first  to  speak.  Her  voice  was  clear  and 
full  of  sweetness. 

"You  know  me,  William  ?" 

"Yes!"  he  said,  after  a  brief  struggle,  and  drawing  a  deep 
breath — "yes." 

She  looked  at  him:  her  large  eyes  grew  misty  with  tender 
ness,  and  yet  there  was  a  proud  reserve  about  her  as  if  she 
waited  for  him  to  say  more.  She  was  keenly  hurt  that  he 
answered  her  only  with  that  brief  "yes." 

"It  is  many  years  since  we  met,"  she  said  at  length,  and  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Yes,  many  years,"  was  his  cold  reply;  "I  thoug.  t  you 
dead." 

"And  mourned  for  me!  Oh!  Leicester,  for  the  love  of 
Heaven,  say  that  I  was  mourned  when  vou  thought  me  dead  I" 

Leicester  smiled — oh,  that  cruel  smile !  It  pierced  that  proud 
woman's  heart  like  the  sting  of  a  venomous  insect,  she  seemed 
withered  by  its  influence.  He  was  gratified,  gratified  that  his 
smile  could  still  make  that  haughty  being  cower  and  tremble. 
He  was  rapidly  gaining  command  over  himself.  Quick  in  asso 
ciation  of  ideas,  even  while  he  was  smiling  he  had  began  to  cal 
culate.  Selfish,  haughty,  cruel,  with  a  heart  fearful  in  the  might 
of  its  passion,  yet  seldom  gaining  mastery  over  nerves  that 
seemed  spun  from  steel,  even  at  this  trying  moment  he  could 
reason  and  plan.  That  power  seldom  left  him.  With  all  his 
evil  might,  he  was  cautious.  Now  he  resolved  to  learn  more, 
and  deal  warily  as  he  learned. 

"And  if  I  did  mourn,  of  what  avail  was  it,  Ada?"  He 
uttered  the  name  on  purpose,  knowing  that,  unless  she  were 
marvellously  changed,  it  would  stir  her  heart  to  yield  more  cer* 
tain  signs  of  his  power.  He  was  not  mistaken.  She  moved  a 


t56  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

step  toward  him  as  he  uttered  the  name  in  the  sweet,  olden 
tone  that  slept  ever  in  her  heart.  The  tears  swelled  to  her 
eyes — she  half  extended  her  arms. 

Again  he  was  pleased.  The  chain  of  his  power  had  not  been 
severed.  Years  might  have  rusted  but  not  broken  it — thus  he 
calculated,  for  he  could  reason  now  before  that  beautiful, 
passionate  being,  coldly  as  a  mathematician  in  his  closet. 
The  dismay  of  her  first  presence  disappeared  with  the 
moment. 

"  Oh!  had  I  but  known  it!  Had  I  but  dreamed  that  you  cared 
for  me  in  the  least!"  cried  the  poor  lady,  falling  into  one  of  the 
hard  chairs,  and  pressing  a  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"What  then,  Ada— what  then?" 

He  took  her  hand  in  his:  she  lifted  her  eyes — a  flood  of 
mournful  tenderness  clouded  them. 

"W  lat  then,  William?" 

"  Y  ,s,  what  then?  How  would  any  knowledge  of  my  feelings 
have  affected  your  destiny?" 

"How?  Did  I  not  love — worship — idolize?  Oh!  Heavens, 
how  I  did  love  you,  William!" 

Her  hands  were  clasped  passionately:  a  glorious  light  broke 
through  the  mist  of  her  unshed  tears. 

"But  you  abandoned  me!" 

"  Abandoned  you — oh,  William  !" 

"  Well,  we  will  not  recriminate — let  us  leave  the  past  for  ? 
moment.  It  has  not  been  so  pleasant  that  we  should  wish  to 
dwell  upon  it." 

"  Pleasant !  oh  !  what  a  bitter,  bitter  past  it  has  been  to 
me!" 

"  But  the  present.  If  you  and  I  can  talk  of  anything,  it 
must  be  that.  Where  have  you  been  so  many  years  ?" 

"  You  know — you  know — why  ask  the  cruel  question  ?"  she 
answered. 

"  True,  we  were  not  to  speak  of  the  past." 

"  And  yet  it  must  be  before  we  part,"  she  said,  gently,  "  else 
how  can  we  understand  the  present  ?" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  67 

"  True  enough  ;  perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  swallow  the  dose  at 
once,  as  we  shall  probably  never  meet  again." 

She  cast  upon  him  a  wild  upbraiding  look.  The  speech  was 
intended  to  wound  her,  arid  it  did — that  man  was  not  content 
with  making  victims,  he  loved  to  tease  and  torture  them.  He 
sat  down  in  one  of  the  maple  chairs,  and  drew  it  nearer  to  her. 

11  Xow,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  all  your  history  since  we  parted — 
your  motive  for  coming  here.77 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his,  and  smiled  with  mournful  bitter 
ness  ;  the  task  that  she  had  imposed  upon  herself  was  a  terri 
ble  one.  She  had  resolved  to  open  her  heart,  to  tell  the  whole 
harrowing,  mournful  truth,  but  her  courage  died  in  his  pres 
ence.  She  could  not  force  her  lips  to  speak  all. 

He  smiled  ;  the  torture  that  she  was  suffering  pleased  him 
— for,  as  I  have  said,  he  loved  to  play  with  his  -victims,  and  the 
anguish  of  shame  which  she  endured  had  something  novel  and 
exciting  in  it.  For  some  time  he  would  not  aid  her,  even  by  a 
question,  but  he  really  wished  to  learn  a  portion  of  her  history, 
for  during  the  last  three  years  he  had  lost  all  trace  of  her,  and 
there  might  be  something  in  the  events  of  those  three  years  to 
affect  his  interest.  It  was  his  policy,  however,  to  appear  igno 
rant  of  all  that  had  transpired. 

But  she  was  silent ;  her  ideas  seemed  paralyzed.  How  many 
times  she  had  fancied  this  meeting — with  what  eloquence  she 
had  pleaded  to  him — how  plausible  were  the  excuses  that  arose 
in  her  mind— and  now  where  had  they  fled?  The  very  power 
of  speech  seemed  abandoning  her.  She  almost  longed  for 
some  taunting  word,  another  cold  sneer — at  least  they  would 
have  stung  her  into  eloquence — but  that  dull,  quiet  silence 
chained  up  her  faculties.  She  sat  gazing  on  the  floor,  mute 
and  pale  ;  and  he  remained  in  his  seat  coldly  regarding  her. 

At  length  the  stillnes  grew  irksome  to  him. 

"  I  am  waiting  patiently,  Ada;  waiting  to  hear  why  you  aban 
doned  your  husband  !" 

She  started  :  her  eye  kindled,  and  the  fiery  blood  flashed  in 
to  her  cheek. 


68  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  I  did  not  abandon  my  husband.     He  left  me." 

"  For  a  journey,  but  for  a  journey  !"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"Yes,  such  journeys  as  you  had  taken  before,  and  with  a  like 
motive,  leaving  me  young,  penniless,  beset  with  temptation,  tor 
tured  with  jealousy.  On  that  very  journey  you  had  a  compan 
ion." 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  eager  even  then,  against  her  own 
positive  knowledge,  to  hear  a  denial  of  her  accusations  ;  but  he 
only  smiled,  and  murmured  softly — 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember.     It  was  a  pleasant  journey." 

"  It  drove  me  wild — I  was  not  myself — suspicions,  such  sus 
picions  haunted  me.  I  thought — I  believed,  nay,  believe  now 
that  you  wished  me  to  go — that  you  longed  to  get  rid  of  me — 
nay,  that  you  encouraged — I  cannot  frame  words  for  the  thought 
even  now.  He  had  lent  you  money,  large  sums — William, 
William,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  tell  me  that  it  was  not  for  this 
I  was  left  alone  in  debt  and  helpless.  Say  that  you  did  not 
yourself  thrust  me  into  that  terrible  temptation  !" 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  grasped  it  hard  ; 
her  eyes  searched  his  to  the  soul.  He  smiled — her  hand 
dropped — her  countenance  fell — and  oh  !  such  bitter  disappoint 
ment  broke  through  her  voice. 

"  It  has  been  the  vulture  preying  on  my  heart  ever  since.  A 
word  would  have  torn  it  away,  but  you  will  not  take  the  trouble 
even  to  deceive  me.  You  smile,  only  smile  !" 

"  I  only  smile  at  the  absurdity  of  your  suspicion." 

She  looked  up  eagerly,  but  with  doubt  in  her  face.  She 
panted  to  believe  him,  but  lacked  the  necessary  faith. 

"  I  asked  him  to  deny  this  on  his  death-bed,  and  he  could  not!" 

"Then  he  is  dead,"  was  the  quick  rejoinder.     "  He  is  dead!" 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  the  daughter,  his  heiress  ?" 

"  She  too  is  dead  !" 

He  longed  to  ask  another  question.  His  eyes  absolutely 
gleamed  with  eagerness,  but  his  self-control  was  wonderful.  A 
direct  question  might  expose  the  unutterable  meanness  of  his 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  69 

hope.  He  must  obtain  what  he  panted  to  know  by  circuitous 
means. 

"  And  you  staid  by  him  to  the  last?" 

She  turned  upon  him  a  sharp  and  penetrating  look.  He  felt 
the  whole  force  of  her  glance,  and  assumed  an  expression  well 
calculated  to  deceive  a  much  less  excitable  observer. 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  "that  you  had  been  living  in  retire 
ment.  That  you  left  the  noble  villain  without  public  disgrace. 
It  was  a  great  satisfaction  for  me  to  know  this." 

"  I  did  leave  him.  I  did  live  in  retirement,  toiled  for  my  own 
bread  ;  by  wrestling  with  poverty  I  strove  to  win  back  some 
portion  of  content." 

"  Yet  you  were  with  him  when  he  died  !" 

"It  was  a  mournful  death-bed — he  sent  for  me,  and  I  went. 
Oh  !  it  was  a  mournful  death-bed  !" 

Tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks ;  she  covered  her  face  with  both 
hands. 

"  I  had  been  the  governess  of  his  daughter — her  nurse  in  the 
last  sickness." 

"And  you  lived  apart,  alone — you  and  this  daughter." 

"  She  died  in  Florence.  We  were  alone.  She  was  sent  home 
for  burial." 

"And  to  be  a  governess  to  this  young  lady  you  abandoned 
your  own  child — only  to  be  governess.  Can  you  say  to  me, 
Ada,  that  it  was  only  to  be  a  governess  to  this  young  lady?" 

There  was  feeling  in  his  voice,  something  of  stern  dignity — • 
perhaps  at  the  moment  he  did  feel — she  thought  so,  and  it 
gave  her  hope. 

She  had  not  removed  her  hands  ;  they  still  covered  her  face, 
and  a  faint  murmur  only  broke  through  the  fingers — oh!  what 
cowards  sin  makes  of  us!  That  poor  woman  dared  not  tell  the 
truth — she  shrunk  from  uttering  a  positive  falsehood,  hence  the 
humiliating  murmur  that  stole  from  her  pallid  lips — the  sicken 
ing  shudder  that  ran  through  her  frame. 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  said  the  husband,  for  Leicester  was 
her  husband — "  you  do  not  answer." 


70  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

She  had  gathered  courage  enough  to  utter  the  falsehood, 
and  dropping  her  hands,  replied  in  a  firm  voice,  disagreeably 
firm,  for  the  lie  cost  her  proud  spirit  a  terrible  effort,  and  she 
could  not  utter  it  naturally  as  he  would  have  done. 

"  Yes,  I  can  answer.  It  was  to  be  the  young  lady's  gov 
erness  that  I  went — only  to  be  her  governess  1 — penniless,  "aban 
doned,  what  else  could  I  do  ?" 

He  did  not  believe  her.  In  his  soul  he  knew  that  she  was 
not  speaking  the  truth  ;  but  there  was  something  yet  to  learn, 
and  in  the  end  it  might  be  policy  to  feign  a  belief  which  he  could 
not  feel. 

"  So  after  wasting  youth  and  talent  on  his  daughter — paling 
your  beauty  over  her  death-bed  and  his — this  pitiful  man  could 
leave  you  to  poverty  and  toil.  Did  he  expect  that  I  would 
receive  you  again  after  that  suspicious  desertion  ?" 

"  No,  no.  The  wild  thought  was  mine — you  once  loved  me, 
William  !" 

The  tears  were  swelling  in  her  eyes  again  ;  few -men  could 
have  resisted  the  look  of  those  eyes,  the  sweet  pleading  of  her 
voice — for  the  contrast  with  her  usual  imperious  pride  had 
something  very  touching  in  it. 

"  You  were  very  beautiful  then,"  he  said — "  very  beautiful." 

"And  am  I  so  much  changed  ?"  she  answered,  with  a  smile 
of  gentle  sweetness. 

In  his  secret  heart  he  thought  the  splendid  creature  hand 
somer  than  ever.  If  the  freshness  of  youth  was  gone,  there  was 
grace,  maturity,  intellect,  everything  requisite  to  the  perfection 
of  womanhood,  in  exchange  for  the  one  lost  attraction. 

It  was  a  part  of  Leicester's  policy  to  please  her  until  he  had 
mastered  all  the  facts  of  her  position  ;  so  he  spoke  for  once  sin 
cerely,  and  in  the  rich  tones  that  he  knew  so  well  how  to  modu 
late,  he  told  how  superbly  her  beauty  had  ripened  with  time. 
She  blushed  like  a  girl.  He  could  feel  even  that  her  hand  was 
glowing  with  the  exquisite  pleasure  given  by  his  praise.  But 
he  had  a  point  to  gain — all  her  loveliness  was  nothing  to  him, 
unless  it  could  be  made  subservient  to  his  interest.  What  was 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  71 

her  present  condition  ? — had  she  obtained  wealth  abroad  ? — or 
could  she  insanely  fancy  that  he  would  receive  her  penniless  ? 
This  was  the  point  that  he  wished  to  arrive  at,  but  so  far  she 
had  evaded  it  as  if  unconsciously. 

He  looked  around  the  room,  hoping  to  draw  some  conclusion 
by  the  objects  it  contained.  The  scrutiny  was  followed  by  a 
faint  start  of  surprise  ;  the  hard  carpet,  the  bureau,  the  bed, 
all  were  familiar.  They  had  been  the  little  "  setting  out"  that 
his  wife  had  received  from  her  parents  in  New  England.  How 
came  they  there,  so  well  kept,  so  neatly  arranged  in  that 
high  chamber  !  Was  she  a  governess  in  some  wealthy  house 
hold,  furnishing  her  own  room  with  the  humble  articles  that  had 
once  been  their  own  household  goods  ?  He  glanced  at  her 
dress.  It  was  simple  and  entirely  without  ornament ;  this  only 
strengthened  the  conclusion  to  which  he  was  fast  arriving.  He  re 
membered  the  marble  vestibule  through  which  they  had  reached 
the  staircase,  the  caution  used  in  admitting  him  to  the  house. 
The  hackney-coach,  everything  gave  proof  that  she  would  be  an 
incumbrance  to  him.  She  saw  that  he  was  regarding  the  patch 
work  quilt  that  covered  the  bed ;  the  tears  began  to  fall  from 
her  eyes.  •*%. 

"Do  you  remember,  William,  we  used  it  first  when  our  dar 
ling  was  a  baby  ?  Have  you  ever  seen  her  since — since  ?" 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  stood  up.  His  whole  manner 
changed. 

"  Do  not  mention  her,  wretched,  unnatural  mother — is  she 
not  impoverished,  abandoned  ?  Can  you  make  atonement  for 
this  r 

11  Xo,  no,  I  never  hoped  it — I  feel  keenly  as  you  can  how  im 
possible  it  is.  Oh,  that  I  had  the  power  I" 

These  words  were  enough  ;  he  had  arrived  at  the  certainty 
that  she  was  penniless. 

"  Now  let  this  scene  have  an  end.  It  can  do  no  good  for  us 
to  meet  again,  or  to  dwell  upon  things  that  are  unchangeable. 
You  have  sought  this  interview,  and  it  is  over.  It  must  never 
be  repeated." 


72  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

She  started  up  and  gazed  at  him  in  wild  surprise. 

"  You  do  not  mean  it,"  she  faltered,  making  an  effort  to 
smile  away  her  terror — "  your  looks  but  a  moment  since — your 
words.  You  have  not  so  trifled  with  me,  William  !" 

He  was  gone — she  followed  him  to  the  door — her  voice  died 
away — she  staggered  back  with  a  faint  wail,  and  fell  senseless 
across  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

MISTRESS   AND    SERVANT. 

With  hate  in  every  burning  thought, 

There,  shrouded  in  the  midnight  gloom, 
While  every  pulse  its  anguish  brought, 

He  guarded  still  that  attic  room. 

JACOB  stood  upon  the  steps  of  that  tall  mansion,  till  his  mis 
tress  disappeared  in  the  darkness  that  filled  it.  His  eyes  fol 
lowed  her  with  an  intense  gazer  as  if  the  fire  smouldering  at  his 
heart  could  empower  his  vision  to  penetrate  the  black  night 
that  seemed  to  engulf  her,  together  with  the  man  to  whose 
hand  she  was  clinging.  The  rain  was  pouring  around  him.  The 
winds  sweeping  through  the  drops,  lulled  a  little,  but  were  still 
violent.  He  stood  motionless  in  the  midst,  allowing  both  rain 
and  wind  to  beat  against  him  without  a  thought.  He  was  list 
ening  for  another  sound  of  their*  footsteps,  from  the  marble 
floor,  and  seemed  paralyzed  upon  the  great  stone  flags,  over 
which  the  water  was  dripping. 

The  carriage  wheels  grinding  upon  the  pavement,  as  the  coach 
man  attempted  to  turn  his  vehicle,  aroused  Jacob  from  his  ab 
straction.  He  turned,  and  running  down  the  steps,  caught  one 
of  the  horses  by  the  bit. 

"  Not  yet — you  will  be  wanted  again  !"  he  shouted. 

"  Wanted  or  not,  I  am  going  home,"  answered  the  driver 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  73 

gruffly  ;  "  as  for  sitting  before  any  lady's  door  on  a  night  like 
this,  nobody  knows  how  long — I  won't,  and  wouldn't  for  twice 
the  money  you'll  pay  me." 

Jacob  backed  the  horses,  till  one  of  the  carriage  wheels 
struck  the  curbstone. 

"  There,"  he  said  resolutely,  "  get  inside  if  you  are  afraid  of 
the  rain  ;  but  as  for  driving  away,  that's  out  of  the  question  !" 

"  We'll  see,  that's  all,"  shouted  the  driver,  giving  his  dripping 
reins  a  shake. 

"  Stop,"  said  Jacob,  springing  up  on  one  of  the  fore- wheels, 
and  thrusting  a  silver  dollar  into  the  man's  hand.  "  This  is  for 
yourself  beside  the  regular  pay  !  Will  that  satisfy  you  for  now 
waiting  ?" 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  answered  the  man,  with  a  broad  grin, 
thrusting  the  coin  into  the  depths  of  a  pocket  that  seemed 
unfathomable,  "  that's  an  argument  to  reconcile  one  to  cold 
water  :  because,  do  you  mind,  there's  a  prospect  of  something 
stronger  after  it.  Hallo,  what  are  you  about  there  ?" 

"  Only  looking  to  the  lamp,"  answered  Jacob,  holding  the 
little  glass  door  open  as  he  spoke. 

"  But  it's  out !" 

"So  it  is  I"  answered  Jacob,  dismounting  from  the  wheel. 

"  And  what's  worse,  there  isn't  a  lamp  left  burning  in  the 
neighborhood  to  light  up  by  1"  muttered  the  driver,  peering  dis- 
'  contentedly  into  the  darkness. 

"  Exactly  !"  was  the  terse  rejoinder. 

"  I  shall  break  my  neck,  and  smash  the  carriage." 

"  Keep  cool — keep  cool,"  said  Jacob,  "  and  when  we  get 
safely  back  to  the  Astor,  there'll  be  another  dollar  to  pay  for 
the  mending — do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do  !"  answered  the  man,  with  a  chuckle,  and 
gathering  himself  up  in  his  overcoat  like  a  turtle  in  its  shell,  he 
cowered  down  in  his  seat  quite  contented  to  be  drenched  at  that 
price  to  any  possible  extent. 

Relieved  from  all  anxiety  regarding  the  carriage,  Jacob  fell 
back  into  the  state  from  which  this  little  contention  had,  for 


74  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

the  moment,  diverted  him.  He  looked  upward — far,  in  a  gable 
overhead  a  single  beam  of  light  quivered  and  broke  amid  the 
rain-drops — it  entered  his  heart  like  a  poignard. 

What  was  he  saying  to  her  ? — was  he  harsh  ? — or  worse,  oh, 
a  thousand  times  worse,  could  that  light  be  gleaming  upon  their 
reconciliation  ?  Jacob  writhed  with  the  thought ;  he  tried  to  be 
calm  ;  to  quench  the  fire  that  broke  up  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart.  His  nature  strong,  and  but  slowly  excited,  grew  ungov 
ernable  when  fully  aroused.  Never  till  that  hour  had  his  imagi 
nation  been  so  glowing,  so  terribly  awake.  A  thousand  fears 
flashed  athwart  his  usually  cool  brain.  Alone,  in  that  great, 
silent  house,  with  a  man  like  Leicester,  was  she  safe  ? — his  mis 
tress — was  she  ?  This  thought — the  latest  and  least  selfish — 
goaded  him  to  action. 

He  strode  hurriedly  up  the  steps,  crossed  the  vestibule  and 
groped  his  way  up  through  the  darkness  till  he  reached  the  attic. 
A  single  ray  of  light  penetrating  a  key-hole,  guided  him  to  the 
door  of  that  singular  chamber.  He  drew  close  and  listened, 
unconscious  of  the  act,  for  his  anxiety  had  become  intense,  and 
Jacob  thought  of  no  forms  then. 

The  rain  beating  upon  the  roof  overpowered  all  other  sounds  ; 
but  now  and  then  a  murmur  reached  his  ear,  broken,  but  familiar 
as  the  pulses  of  his  own  heart.  This  was  followed  by  tones  that 
brought  his  teeth  sharply  together.  They  might  be  mellowed 
by  distance,  but  to  him  they  seemed  soft  and  persuasive  to  a 
degree  of  fascination.  He  could  not  endure  them  ;  they  glided 
through  his  heart  like  serpents  distilling  poison  from  every  coil. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  latch,  hesitated,  and  turning  away, 
crept  through  the  darkness,  ashamed  of  what  he  had  done.  He 
an  eaves-dropper,  and  with  her,  his  mistress  I  He  paused  on  the 
top  of  the  winding  staircase  beyond  ear-shot,  but  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  that  ray  of  light,  humbled  and  crushed  in  spirit,  for 
he  had  awoke  as  from  a  dream,  and  found  himself  listening. 
There  the  poor  man  sat  down  pale  and  faint  with  self-reproach. 

Poor  Jacob  ;  his  punishment  was  terrible  !  Minute  after 
minute  crept  by,  and  each  second  seemed  an  hour.  Some* 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  75 

times  he  sat  with  both  hands  clasped  over  his  face,  and  both 
knees  pressed  hard  by  his  elbows.  Then  he  would  stand  up  in 
the  darkness  quiet  as  a  statue  ;  not  a  murmur  could  possibly 
reach  his  ear  from  the  room.  Still  he  held  his  breath,  and 
bent  forward  like  one  listening.  Cruel  ajixiety  forced  the  posi 
tion  upon  him,  but  it  could  not  impel  him  one  step  nearer  the 
door. 

He  was  standing  thus,  bending  forward  with  his  eyes,  as  it 
were,  devouring  the  little  gleam  of  light  that  fell  so  tranquilly 
through  the  key-hole,  when  the  door  was  suddenly  opened  and 
Leicester  came  out.     With  the  abrupt  burst  of  light  rushed  a 
cry,  wild  and  quivering  with  anguish.     Jacob  sprang  forward, 
seized  Leicester  by  the  arm,  and  after  one  or  two  fruitless 
efforts — for  every  word  choked  him  as  it  rose — he  said — 
"  Have  you  killed  her?     Is  it  murder  ?" 
"A  fit  of  hysterics,  friend,  nothing  more  1"  was  the  cool 
reply. 

Jacob  strode  into  the  chamber.  His  mistress  lay  prone  upon 
the  bed,  her  face  pale  as  death,  and  a  faint  convulsion  stirring 
her  limbs^ 

He  bent  over  her,  and  gently  put  the  hair  back  from  her 
temples  with  his  great,  awkward  hand. 

"  She  is  not  dead,  nor  hurt !"  he  murmured,  and  though  his 
face  expressed  -profound  compassion,  a  gleam  of  wild  joy 
broke  through  it  all.  "  His  scorn  has  wounded  her,  not  his 
hand." 

Still  the  poor  lady  remained  insensible.     There  was  a  faint 
quivering  of  the  eyelids,  but  no  other  appearance  of  life.     Jacob 
looked  around  for  some  means  of  restoration,  but  none  were 
there.     He  flung  up  the  window,  and  dashing  open  a  shutter, 
held  out  his  palm.     It  was  soon  full  of  water-drops,  and  with 
these  he  bathed  her  forehead  and  her  pale  mouth,  while  a  gust 
of  rain  swept  through  the  open  sash.   This  aroused  her  ;  a  shud 
der  crept  through  her  limbs,  and  her  eyes  opened.     Jacob  was  1 
bending  over  her  tenderly,  as  a  mother  watches  her  child. 
She  saw  who  it  was,  and  rising  feebly  to  her  elbow,  put  him 


76  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

back  with  one  hand,  while  her  eyes  wandered  eagerly  around  the 
room. 

"Where — where  is  he?"  she  questioned;  "  oh,  Jacob,  call 
him  back." 

"  No  I"  answered  the  servant,  firmly,  notwithstanding  that  his 
Voice  shook — "  no,  I  will  not  call  him  back  1  To-morrow  you 
vould  not  thank  me  for  doing  it  I" 

She  turned  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  closing  her  eyes, 
murmured — 

"  Leave  me  then — leave  me  !" 

Jacob  closed  the  window,  and  folding  the  quilt  softly  over  her, 
went  out.  He  had  half  descended  the  coil  of  steps,  when  a  voice 
from  below  arrested  his  attention. 

"  Here  yet  !"  he  muttered,  springing  down  into  the  darkness, 
and  like  a  wild  beast  guided  by  the  instinct  of  his  passion,  he 
seized  Leicester  by  the  arm. 

"  Softly,  softly,  friend,"  exclaimed  that  gentleman,  with  a  low 
calm  intonation,  though  one  hand  was  upon  his  revolver  all  the 
time.  "  Oblige  me  by  relaxing  your  hand  just  the  least  in  the 
world  ;  my  arm  is  tender  as  a  lady's,  and  your  fingers  seem  made 
of  iron." 

"We  grasp  rattlesnakes  hard  when  we  do  touch  them," 
muttered  Jacob,  fiercely,  "  and  close  to  the  throat,  it  strangles 
back  the  poison." 

"  Never  touch  a  rattlesnake  at  all,  friend,  it  is  a  desperate 
business,  I  assure  you  ;  they  are  beautiful  reptiles,  but  rather 
dangerous  to  play  with.  Oh,  I  am  glad  that  your  fingers  relax, 
it  would  have  been  unpleasant  to  shoot  a  fellow  creature  here 
in  the  dark,  and  with  a  gentle  lady  close  by." 

"  Would  it  ?"  muttered  Jacob,  between  his  teeth. 

The  answer  was  a  light  laugh,  that  sounded  strangely  in  that 
silent  dwelling. 

"  Your  hand  once  more,  friend  ;  after  all,  this  darkness 
makes  me  quite  dependent  on  your  guidance,"  said  the  voice 
again. 

There  was  a  fierce  struggle  in  Jacob's  bosom  ;  but  at  last  his 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  77 

hand  was  stretched  forth  and  clasped  with  the  soft,  white  fingers, 
whose  bare  touch  filled  his  soul  with  loathing. 

"  This  way — I  will  lead  you  safely  !". 

"  Why,  how  you  tremble,  friend — not  with  fear,  I  hope." 

"  No,  with  hate  !"  were  the  words  that  sprang  to  the  honest 
lips  of  Jacob  Strong  ;  but  he  conquered  the  impulse  to  utter 
them,  and  only  answered — "  Fm  not  afraid  I" 

"  Faith,  but  it  requires  courage  to  grope  one's  way  through 
all  this  darkness — every  step  puts  our  necks  in  danger." 

Jacob  made  no  observation  ;  he  had  reached  the  lower  hall, 
and  moved  rapidly  across  the  tessellated  floor  toward  the  front 
entrance.  The  moment  they  gained  the  open  air,  Jacob  wrenched 
his  hand  from  the  other's  grasp,  and  hurrying  down  the  steps, 
opened  the  carriage  door.  The  rain  prevented  any  further 
questioning  on  the  part  of  Leicester,  and  he  took  his  seat  in 
silence. 

Jacob  climbed  up  to  the  driver's  seat,  and  took  possession  of 
the  reins.  The  man  submitted  quietly,  glad  to  gather  himself 
closer  in  his  overcoat.  A  single  crack  of  the  whip,  and  off 
went  the  dripping  horses,  plunging  furiously  onward  through 
the  darkness,  winding  round  whole  blocks  of  buildings,  doubling 
corners,  and  crossing  one  street  half  a  dozen  times,  till  it  would 
have  puzzled  a  man  in  broad  daylight  to  guess  where  he  was 
going,  or  whence  he  came.  At  length  the  carriage  dashed 
into  Broadway,  and  downward  to  the  Astor  House. 

The  coachman  kept  his  seat,  and  Jacob  once  more  let  down 
the  carriage  steps.  The  drive  had  given  him  time  for  delibera 
tion.  He  was  no  longer  a  slave  to  the  rage  that  an  hour 
before  seemed  to  overpower  his  strength — rage  that  had  chang 
ed  his  voice,  and  even  his  usual  habits  of  language. 

"  Come  in — come  in  I"  said  Leicester,  as  he  ran  up  the  steps 
"  I  wish  to  ask  a  question  or  two." 

Jacob  made  no  answer,  but  followed  in  a  heavy  indifferent 
manner.  All  his  faculties  were  now  under  control,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  act  any  part  that  might  present  itself. 

Leicester  paused  in  the  lobby,  and  turning  round,  cast  a 


78  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

glance  over  Jacob's  person.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ob 
tained  a  full  view  of  those  harsh  features.  Leicester  was  per 
plexed.  Was  this  the  man  who  had  guided  him  through  the 
dark  passages  of  the  mansion-house,  or  was  it  only  the  coach 
man  ?  The  profound  darkness  had  prevented  him  seeing  that 
another  person  occupied  the  driver's  seat  when  he  left  the  car 
riage  ;  and  Jacob's  air  was  so  like  a  brother  of  the  whip, 
that  it  puzzled  even  his  acute  penetration.  The  voice — Lei 
cester  had  a  faultless  ear,  and  was  certain  that  in  the  speech  he 
should  detect  the  man.  He  spoke,  therefore,  in  a  quiet,  com 
mon  way,  and  took  out  his  purse. 

"  How  much  am  I  to  pay  you,  my  fine  fellow?" 

"  What  you  please.  The  lady  paid,  but  then  it's  a  wet  night, 
and " 

"  Yes,  yes,  will  that  do  ?"  cried  Leicester,  drawing  forth  a 
piece  of  silver.  The  voice  satisfied  him  that  it  was  the  coach 
man  only.  The  former  tone  had  been  quick,  peremptory,  and 
inspired  with  passion  ;  now  it  was  calm,  drawling,  and  marked 
with  something  of  a  Down-East  twang.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  unlike  than  that  voice  then,  and  an  hour  before. 

Jacob  took  the  money,  and  moving  toward  the  light,  exam 
ined  it  closely. 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  suppose  it's  a  genuine  half  dollar,"  he 
said,  turning  away  with  the  business-like  air  he  had  so  well  as 
sumed. 

Leicester  laughed — "  Of  course  it  is — but  stop  a  moment, 
and  tell  me — if  it  is  within  the  limits  of  your  geographical 
knowledge — where  I  have  been  travelling  to  night  ?" 

"  Sir  1"  answered  Jacob,  turning  back  with  a  perplexed 
look. 

"  Where  have  I  been  ?  What  number  and  street  was  it  to 
ivhich  you  drove  me  ?" 

"  The  street.  Wai,  I  reckon  it  was  nigh  upon  Twenty 
Eighth  street,  sir." 

"  And  the  number  ?" 

"  It  isn't  numbered  just  there,  sir,  I  believe." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  79 

"  But  you  know  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  is,  I  suppose  I  know  it.  The  man  told  me 
when  to  stop,  so  I  didn't  look  particularly  myself." 

"  The  man,  what  was  he,  a  servant  or  a  gentleman?" 

"  Now  raly,  sir,  in  a  country  where  all  are  free  and  equal,  it 
is  dreadful  difficult  to  tell  which  is  which  sometimes.  He  act 
ed  like  a  hired  man  to  the  lady,  and  like  a  gentleman  to  me, 
that  is  in  the  way  of  renunciation  !" 

"  Renunciation — remuneration,  you  mean  !" 

"  Wai,  yes,  maby  I  do  !"  answered  Jacob,  shaking  the  rain 
from  his  hat,  "  one  word  is  jest  as  good  as  t'other,  I  calculate, 
so  long  as  both  on  'em  are  about  the  same  length." 

"  So  you  could  find  the  house  again  ?"  persisted  Leicester, 
intent  upon  gaining  some  information  regarding  his  late  adven 
ture. 

"  Wai,  I  guess  so." 

"  Very  well — come  here  to-morrow,  and  I  will  employ  you 
again." 

41  Thank  you,  sir  !" 

"  Stop  a  moment,  leave  me  your  card — the  number  of  your 
hack,  and "- 

A  look  of  profound  horror  came  over  Jacob's  face.  "  Cards, 
sir,  I  never  touched  the  things  in  my  hull  life." 

Leicester  laughed. 

"  I  mean  the  tickets  you  give  to  travellers,  that  they  may 
know  where  to  get  a  carriage." 

Jacob  began  to  search  his  pockets  with  great  fervor,  but  in 
vain,  as  the  reader  may  well  suppose. 

"  Wai,  now,  did  you  ever — I  hain't  got  the  least  sign  of  one 
about  me." 

"  No  matter,  tell  me  your  number,  that  will  do  1" 

The  first  combination  of  figures  that  entered  Jacob's  head, 
was  given  with  a  quiet  simplicity  that  left  no  suspicion  of  their 
truthfulness. 

"  Very  well — come  to-morrow,  say  at  two  o'clock." 

Jacob  made   an   awkward  bow.     In  truth,  with  his  loose 


80  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

joints  and  ungainly   figure,    this   was  never  a  very   difficult 
exploit. 

"  A  minute  more.     Should  you  know  that  lady  again  ?" 

"  Should  I  know  her  !"  almost  broke  from  Jacob's  lips  ; 
but  he  forced  back  the  exclamation,  and  though  his  frame  trem 
bled  at  the  mention  of  his  mistress,  he  answered  naturally  as 
before. 

"  Wai,  it  was  dark,  but  I  guess  that  face  ain't  one  to  forget 
easy." 

"  You  may  be  sent  for  again,  perhaps,  by  the  same  person." 

"  Jest  as  likely  as  not  1" 

"  You  seem  a  shrewd,  sensible  fellow,  friend  !" 

"  Wai,  yes,  our  folks  used  to  say  I  was  a  cute  chap." 

"  And  pick  up  a  little  information  about  almost  everybody,  I 
dare  say  !" 

"  Sartainly,  I  am  generally  considered  purty  wide  awake  1" 

"  Very  well,  just  keep  an  eye  on  this  lady — make  a  little 
inquiry  in  the  shops  and  groceries  about  the  neighborhood — I 
should  like  to  learn  more  about  her.  You  understand  1" 

Jacob  nodded  his  head. 

"  You  shall  be  well  paid  for  the  trouble — remember  that  1" 

"Jest  so  1"  was  the  composed  answer. 

"Very  well,  call  to-morrow — the  man  will  bring  you  to  my 
rooms,"  said  Leicester,  turning  away. 

"  I  will,"  muttered  Jacob,  in  a  voice  so  changed,  that  Lei 
cester's  suspicious  must  have  returned,  had  it  reached  his  ear. 

The  next  moment  the  fictitious  driver  came  rushing  down  the 
Astor  House  steps.  He  dashed  the  silver  impetuously  upon  the 
pavement,  and  plunged  into  the  carriage. 

"  Drive  up  the  Fifth  avenue,  till  I  tell  you  to  stop  and  let 
me  out,"  he  shouted  to  the  coachman  ;  then  sinking  back  in  the 
seat  and  knitting  his  great  hands  hard  together,  he  muttered 
through  his  teeth — "  the  villain  ! — oh  the  villain,  how  cool, 
how  etarnally  cool  he  was  1" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  81 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED, 

The  serpent,  coiled  within  the  grass, 

With  open  jaw  and  eager  eyes, 
Watches  the  careless  wild  bird  pass, 

And  lures  him  from  his  native  skies. 

LEICESTER  went  to  Ms  room  humming  a  tune  as  be  moved  along 
the  passages.  Soft  and  low  the  murmurs  fell  from  his  lips,  like 
the  suppressed  cooing  of  a  bird.  Now  and  then  he  paused  to 
brush  the  moisture  from  his  coat.  Once  he  fell  into  thought,  and 
stood  for  more  than  a  minute  with  his  eyes  beut  upon  the  floor. 
One  of  those  lone  wanderers  in  hotels,  that  sit  up  to  help  off 
early  travellers,  happened  to  pass  just  then,  and  interrupted  his 
reverie. 

"  Oh,  is  it  you  Jim,"  said  Leicester,  starting,  "  I  hope  there  is 
a  fire  still  in  my  room." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  just  looked  in  to  see  if  the  young  gentleman  was 
comfortable,"  answered  the  man. 

"  What  young  gentleman,  Jim  ?" 

"  Why,  one  that  called  just  after  you  went  out,  sir.  I  told  him 
you  left  no  word,  and  might  be  in  any  minute,  so  he  has  been 
waiting  ever  since." 

This  information  seemed  to  disturb  Leicester,  but  he  checked 
a  visible  impulse  to  speak  again,  and  moved  on. 

Leicester  found  in  his  chamber  a  young  man,  or  rather  lad, 
for  the  intruder  did  not  seem  to  be  more  than  nineteen.  His 
complexion  was  fair  as  an  infant's,  and  silky  as  an  infant's  were 
the  masses  of  chestnut  curls,  rich  with  a  tinge  of  gold,  that  lay 
upon  his  white  forehead.  The  boy  was  sound  asleep  in  thi 
large,  easy  chair.  One  cheek  lay  against  the  crimson  dressing- 
gown,  which  Leicester  had  flung  across  the  back  of  this  chair  on 
going  out.  The  other  was  warmed  to  a  rich  rose  tint  by 'the 
heat.  His  lips,  red  and  lustrous  as  over-ripe  cherries,  were 

4* 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

parted,  till  the  faintest  gleam  of  his  teeth  became  visible. 
The  2ad  was  tall  for  his  age,  and  every  limb  was  rounded 
almost  to  a  tone  of  feminine  synfflietry.  His  hands,  snowy, 
somewhat  large,  and  dimpled  at  the  joints,  lay  on  his  chest  in 
dolently,  as  if  they  had  been  clasped  and  were  falling  apart  in 
his  slumber,  while  each  elbow  fell  against,  rather  than  rested 
upon  the  arms  of  his  seat. 

An  air  of  voluptuous  quiet  hung  about  the  boy.  Wine  gleam 
ed  redly  in  the  half  filled  glasses,  fragments  of  Leicester's  sup 
per  were  scattered  about,  and  all  the  rich  tints  that  filled  the  room 
floated  around  him,  like  the  atmosphere  in  a  warmly  toned  pic- 
tare.  Leicester  observed  this,  as  he  entered  the  room,  and, 
with  the  feelings  of  an  artist,  changed  one  of  the  candles,  that 
its  beams  might  fall  more  directly  on  the  boy's  face,  and  fling  a 
deeper  shadow  in  the  background. 

The  deep,  sweet  slumber  of  youth  possessed  the  boy,  and  even 
the  increased  light  did  not  arouse  him  ;  he  only  stretched  him 
self  more  indolently,  and,  while  one  of  his  hands  fell  down,  began 
to  breathe  deep  and  freely  again.  The  motion  loosened  several 
folds  of  the  dressing-gown,  adding  a  more  picturesque  effect  to 
the  position. 

Leicester  smiled,  and  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  began 
to  study  the  effect  quietly ;  for  he  was  one  of  those  men  whose 
refinement  in  selfishness,  forbade  the  abridgment  of  a  pleasur 
able  sensation,  however  ill-timed  it  might  be.  The  boy  smiled 
in  his  sleep.  He  was  evidently  dreaming,  and  the  glow  that 
spread  over  his  cheek  grew  richer,  as  if  the  slumbering  thought 
was  a  joyous  one. 

Leicester's  brow  darkened.  There  was  something  in  that  soft 
sleep,  in  the  warm  smile,  that  seemed  to  awake  memories  of  his 
own  youth.  He  gazed  on,  but  his  eye  grew  vicious  in  its  ex 
pressiou,  as  if  he  were  beginning  to  loathe  the  youth  for  the  inno 
cence  of  his  look.  Again  the  boy  moved  and  muttered  in  his 
sleep — something  about  a  picture ;  Leicester  heard  it,  and  laugh 
ed  softly. 

At  another  time,  Leicester  would  not  have  hesitated  to  arouse 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  83 

the  youth,  for  it  was  deep  in  the  night,  and  he  was  not  one  to 
break  his  own  rest  for  the  convenience  of  another  ;  but  he  had 
been  greatly  excited,  notwithstanding  that  cool  exterior.  Old 
memories  were  stirred  up  in  his  heart — pure  as  some  memories 
of  youth  ever  must  be,  even  though  breaking  through  a  nature 
vile  as  his — like  water-lilies  dragged  up  from  the  depths  of  a 
dark  pool.  Those  memories  disturbed  the  very  dregs  of  his 
heart,  and  when  thus  disturbed,  some  pure  waters  gushed  up, 
mingled  with  much  that  was  black  and  bitter.  He  had  no  in 
clination  for  sleep,  none  for  solitude,  and  with  his  whole  being 
thus  aroused,  anything  which  promised  to  occupy  thought,  with 
out  touching  upon  feeling,  was  a  relief. 

It  would  not  do.  The  exquisite  taste,  the  intense  love  of 
artistical  effect  that  brightened  his  nature,  could  not  long  rob 
his  spirit  of  those  thoughts  that  found  in  everything  a  stimulus. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  confine  himself  to  simple  admiration,  as  he 
gazed  upon  each  new  posture  assumed  by  the  sleeping  boy.  His 
own  youth  rose  before  him  in  the  presence  of  youth  asleep. 
He  made  a  powerful  effort  at  self-control.  He  said  to  his  thought, 
so  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther.  But  the  light  which  gleamed* 
across  the  throat  of  that  sleeping  boy,  exposed  by  the  low  col 
lar  and  simple  black  ribbon,  was  something  far  more  intense 
than  the  beams  of  a  waxen  candle.  Spite  of  himself,  it  illu 
minated  the  many  dark  places  in  his  own  soul,  and  forced  him 
to  see  that  which  existed  there. 

Thus  he  fell  into  a  reverie,  dark  and  sombre,  from  which  he 
awoke  at  length  with  a  profound  sigh.  The  boy  still  smiled  in 
his  sleep.  Leicester  could  no  longer  endure  this  blooming  hu 
man  life,  so  close  to  him,  and  yet  so  unconscious.  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  youth's  shoulder  and  aroused  him. 
.  "  Robert  !" 

"Ha  !  Mr.  Leicester — is  it  you?"  cried  the  boy  starting  up 
and  opening  a  pair  of  large  gray  eyes  to  their  fullest  extent. — 
"  Really,  I  must  have  been  asleep  in  your  chair,  and  dreaming 
too.  It  was  not  the  wine,  upon  my  honor.  I  only  drank  half  a, 
glass." 


84  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  And  so  you  were  dreaming  ?"  said  Leicester,  with  a  sort 
of  chilly  sadness.  "  The  vision  seemed  a  very  pleasant  one  1" 

The  lad  glanced  at  the  miniature  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  under  their  long  lashes. 

"  The  last  object  I  saw  was  that,"  he  said.  "It  haunted  me, 
I  suppose." 

"  You  think  it  pretty,  then  ?"  was  the  quiet  rejoinder. 

"  Pretty  !  beautiful  1  I  dreamed  she  was  with  me  in  one  of 
those  far  off  isles  of  the  ocean,  which  Tom  Moore  talks  about. 
Such  fruit,  ripe,  luscious,  and  bursting  with  fragrance — flowers 
moist  with  dew,  and  fairly  dripping  with  sunshine — grass  upon 
the  banks  softer  than  moss,  and  greener  than  emerald — water 
so  pure,  leaping " 

"  It  was  a  pleasant  dream,  no  doubt,"  said  Leicester,  quietly 
interrupting  the  lad. 

"  Pleasant — it  was  Heavenly.  That  lovely  creature,  so  bright, 
so " 

"  Do  you  know  how  late  it  is  ?"  said  Leicester,  seating  himself 
in  the  easy  chair,  and  bringing  the  boy  down  from  his  fancies 
*  with  the  most  ruthless  coldness. 

"  No,  really.  I  had  been  waiting  some  time,  that  is  certain. 
Then  the  dream — but  one  never  guesses  at  the  length  of  time 
when " 

"  It  is  near  one  o'clock  I" 

"  And  you  are  sleepy — wish  me  away — well,  good  bye  then  I" 

"No  ;  but  I  wish  to  talk  of  something  beside  childish  vis 
ions  !" 

"  Childish  !"     The  boy's  cheek  reddened. 

"  Welt,  youthful,  then  ;  that  is  the  term,  I  believe.  Now  tell 
mo-  what  you  have  been  doing.  '  How  do  you  like  the  counting- 
house  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well.  I'm  sure  it  seems  impossible  to  thank  you 
enough  for  getting  me  in." 

"  Has  the  firm  raised  your  salary  yet  ?" 

"  No — I  have  not  ventured  to  mention  it." 

"  You  have  won  confidence,  I  trust " 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  85 

"I  have  tried  my  best  to  deserve  it,"  answered  the  boy  mod 
estly. 

Leicester  frowned.  The  frank  honesty  of  this  speech  seemed 
to  displease  him. 

"  They  are  beginning  to  trust  you  in  things  of  importance — 
with  the  bank  business,  perhaps  ?" 

"  Yes,  sometimes  I" 

"  That  looks  very  well,  and  your  writing —  I  hope  you  have 
attended  to  the  lessons  I  gave  you.  Without  faultless  penman 
ship,  a  clerk  is  always  at  disadvantage." 

"I  think  you  will  not  be  displeased  with  my  progress,  sir." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  would  grieve  me,  Robert,  should  you 
fall  short  in  anything,  after  the  recommendation  I  procured  for 
your  employers." 

"  I  never  will,  sir,  depend  upon  it — I  never  will  if  study  and 
hard  work  will  sustain  me,"  answered  the  youth,  earnestly. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it.  Now  tell  me  about  your  companions, 
your  amusements." 

"  Amusements,  sir,  how  can  I  afford  them  ?" 

"  Certainly  the  salary  is  too  small !" 

"  I  did  not  complain.  In  fact,  I  suppose  it  is  large  enough  for 
the  services  1" 

"  Still  you  work  all  the  time  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do  1" 

"  And  those  who  receive  twice — nay,  three  times  your  salary 
do  no  more." 

"  That  is  true,"  answered  the  boy,  thoughtfully,  "  but  then  I 
am  so  young  !" 

"  But  you  have  more  abilities  than  many  of  those  above  you 
who  are  far  better  paid." 

"  Do  you  think  so— really  think  so,  Mr.  Leicester  ?"  said  the 
youth,  blushing  with  honest  pleasure. 

"  I  never  say  what  I  do  not  think  !"  answered  the  crafty  man 
with  quiet  dignity,  and  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  boy,  for 
he  was  reading  every  impulse  of  that  warm  young  heart.  "  You 
have  abilities  of  a  high  order,  industry,  talent,  everything 


86  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

requisite  for  success — but  remember,  Robert,  the  reward  for  those 
qualities  comes  slowly  as  society  is  regulated,  and  sometimes 
never  comes  at  all.  The  rich  blockhead  often  runs  far  in  ad 
vance  of  the  poor  genius." 

The  youth  looked  grave.  A  spirit  of  discontent  was  creeping 
into  his  heart.  "  I  thought  that  with  integrity  and  close  appli 
cation,!  should  be  sure  to  succeed  like  others,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
suppose  poverty  will  stand  in  the  way.  Strange  that  I  did  not 
see  that  before." 

"See  what,  Robert?" 

"  Why,  that  starting  poor  I  am  only  the  more  likely  to  be 
kept  in  poverty.  I  remember  now  one  of  our  clerks,  no  older 
than  I  am,  was  promoted  only  last  week.  His  father  was  a  rich 
man,  and  it  was  whispered  that  he  would  sometime  be  a  junior 
partner  in  the  concern." 

"  You  see,  then,  what  money  can  do." 
"  Well,  after  all,  my  good  old  aunt  has  money,  more  than 
people  imagine,  I  dare  say  !"  cried  the  boy,  brightening  up. 

"What,  the  old  lady  in  the  market  ?  Take  my  advice,  Rob 
ert,  and  never  mention  her."* 

"  And  why  not  ?"  questioned  the  boy 

"  Because  selling  turnips  and  cabbage  sprouts  might  n'ot  be 
considered  the  most  aristocratic  way  of  making  money  among 
your  fellow  clerks." 

The  boy  changed  countenance  ;  his  eye  kindled  and  his  lip 
began  to  curve. 

"  I  shall  never  be  ashamed  of  my  aunt,  sir.     She  is  a  good, 

generous  woman " 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  Go  and  proclaim  her  good  qualities 
among  your  companions,  and  see  the  result.  For  my  part,  I 
think  the  state  of  society  which  makes  any  honest  occupation  a 
cause  of  reproach,  is  to  be  condemned  by  all  honorable  men. 
But  you  and  I,  Robert,  cannot  hope  to  change  the  present  order 
of  things,  and  without  the  power  to  remedy  we  have  only  to 
submit.  So  take  my  advice  and  never  talk  of  that  fine  old 
huckster-woman  among  your  fellow  clerks." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  87 

Robert  was  silent.  He  stood  gazing  upon  the  floor,  his 
cheeks  hot  with  wounded  feeling,  and  his  eyes  half  full  of  tears. 
When  he  spoke  again  there  was  trouble  in  his  voice. 

"  Thank  yon  for  the  advice,  Mr.  Leicester,  though  I  must  say 
it  seems  rather  cold-hearted.  I  will  go  now  ;  excuse  me  for 
keeping  you  up  so  late." 

"  You  need  not  go  on  that  account,"  said  Leicester,  "  I  am 
not  certain  of  going  to  sleep  at  all  before  morning  1" 

"  And  I,"  said  Robert,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  somehow  this 
conversation  makes  me  restless.  That  sweet  dream  from  which 
you  aroused  me,  will  not  be  likely  to  come  back  again  to 
night  !" 

Robert  glanced  at  the  miniature  as  he  spoke,  and  a  glow  of 
admiration  kindled  the  mist  still  hanging  about  his  eyes. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Leicester,  quietly,  and  with  his  keen  glance 
fixed  upon  the  boy,  "  perhaps  I  may  introduce  you  to  her  some 
day." 

"  To  her,"  cried  the  youth.  "  Alive!  is  there  any  being  like 
that  alive  ?" 

His  face  was  in  a  glow,  and  a  bright  smile  flashed  over  it. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  beautiful  than  the  boy  that 
moment. 

Leicester  regarded  him  with  a  faint  smile.  Like  a  chemist, 
he  was  experimenting  upon  the  beautiful  nature  before  him, 
and  like  a  chemist  he  watched  the  slow,  subtle  poison  that  he 
had  administered. 

"  Alive  and  breathing,  Robert  ;  the  picture  does  not  quite 
equal  her  in  some  things.  It  is  a  little  too  sad.  The  quick 
sparkle  of  her  more  joyous  look  no  artist  can  embody.  But 
you  shall  see  her." 

"  I  shall  see  her,"  muttered  Robert,  turning  his  eyes  from 
the  miniature.  "  What  if  my  dream  were  to  prove  correct  ?" 

"  What — the  lone  island,  the  flowers,  the  magical  fruit  I" 
said  Leicester  with  a  soft  laugh  that  had  a  mocking  tone  in 
it. 

"  That  was  not  all  my  dream.     It  seemed  to  me  that  she 


88  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

was  in  trouble,  and  in  all  her  beauty  and  her  grief,  became  my 
guardian  angel." 

"You  could  not  select  anything  more  lovely  for  the  office,  I 
assure  you,"  answered  Leicester. 

"She  must  be  good  as  she  is  beautiful,"  answered  the  boy, 
turning  an  earnest  glance  on  his  companion  ;  for  without  know 
ing  it,  his  sensitive  nature  had  been  stung  by  the  sarcasm  lurk 
ing  beneath  the  soft  tones  in  which  Leicester  had  spoken. 

"  At  your  age,  all  women  are  angels,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"And  at  yours,  what  are  they  then?"  questioned  the  lad. 

"Women!"  answered  Leicester  with  a  scornful  curve  of  the 
lip,  and  a  depth  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice,  that  made  the  youth 
shrink. 

The  arch  hypocrite  saw  the  impression  his  unguarded  bitter 
ness  had  made,  and  added,  "but  this  one  really  is  an  angel.  I 
may  not  admire  her  as  much  as  you  would,  Robert,  but  she  is 
an  exquisite  creature,  timid  as  a  young  fawn,  delicate  as  a 
flower!" 

"  I  was  sure  of  it  !"  exclaimed  Robert  with  enthusiasm,  for 
this  frank  praise  had  obliterated  all  impression  made  by  the 
sarcasm  in  Leicester's  voice. 

"  And  now,"  said  Leicester  taking  his  hat  from  the  table,  "  as 
you  seem  quite  awake,  and  as  I  positively  cannot  sleep,  what  if 
we  take  a  stroll  ?" 

"  Where  could  we  go  at  this  time  of  night  ?"  said  Robert, 
surprised  by  the  proposition. 

"  I  have  a  great  fancy  to  let  you  see  the  inside  of  a  gambling 
house  for  once,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

"  A  gambling  house  ?     Oh,  Mr.  Leicester  !" 

"I  have  often  thought,"  said  Leicester,  as  if  speaking  to 
himself,  "that  the  best  way  of  curing  that  ardent  curiosity  with 
which  youth  always  regards  the  unseen,  is  to  expose  evil  at  once, 
in  all  its  glare  and  iniquity.  The  gambling  house  is  sometimes 
a  fine  moral  school.  Robert,  have  you  never  heard  grave  men 
assert  as  much  ?" 

Robert  did  not  answer,  but  a  cloud  settled  on  his  white  fore- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  89 

head,  and  taking  his  cap  from  Leicester,  who  held  it  toward  him, 
he  began  to  crush  it  nervously  with  his  hand. 

"  The  storm  is  over,  I  believe,"  observed  Leicester,  without 
seeming  to  observe  his  agitation.  "  Come,  we  shall  be  in  time 
for  the  excitement  when  it  is  most  revolting." 

Robert  grew  pale  and  shrunk  back. 

"  Not  with  me  ?"  cried  Leicester,  turning  his  eyes  full  upon 
the  boy  with  a  look  of  overwhelming  reproach,  "  are  you  afraid 
to  go  with  me,  Robert  ?" 

"  No.  I  will  go  anywhere  with  you  ?"  answered  the  youth, 
almost  with  a  sob,  for  that  look  of  reproach  from  his  benefactor 
wounded  him  to  the  heart.  "  I  will  go  anywhere  with  you  I" 

And  he  went. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

There  was  not  about  her  birth-place, 

A  thicket,  or  a  flower, 
But  childish  game,  or  friendly  face, 

Had  given  it  a  power 
To  haunt  her  in  her  after  life, 

And  be  to  her  again, 
A  sweet  and  bitter  memory 

Of  mingled  joy  and  pain. 

IT  was  a  wild  and  lovely  spot  in  the  heart  of  Maine,  a  state 
where  the  rural  and  the  picturesque  are  more  beautifully  blen 
ded  than  can  be  found  elsewhere  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 
The  portion  we  speak  of  is  broken,  and  torn  up,  as  it  were,  by 
undulating  ridges  of  the  White  Mountains,that  seem  to  cast  their 
huge  shadows  half  over  the  state.  The  valleys  are  bright  with 
a  wealth  of  foliage,  which,  in  the  brief  summer  time,  is  of  a  deeper 
and  richer  green  than  ever  was  found  elsewhere  on  this  side 
the  Atlantic.  Hills,  some  of  them  bold  and  black  with  naked 


90  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

rocks,  others  clothed  down  the  side  with  soft  waving  ridges  of 
cultivation,  loomed  over  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  buckwheat, 
all  in  a  sea  of  snowy  blossoms.  Patches  of  earth  newly  ploughed 
for  the  next  year's  crop,  blended  their  brown  tints  with  moun 
tain  slopes,  rich  with  rye  and  oats.  Wild,  deep  lakes,  sleeping  in 
their  green  basins  among  the  hills  ;  mountain  streams  plunging 
downward,  and  threading  the  dark  rocks  together  as  with  a 
thousand  diamond  chains  closely  entangled  and  struggling  to  get 
free,  -shed  brightness  and  music  among  these  hills ;  and  the 
Androscoggin,  gliding  calmly  on,  winding  through  the  hills, 
and  rolling  softly  beneath  the  willows  that  here  and  there  give 
tts  banks  a  park-like  beauty,  and  a  thousand  broken  hollows 
— sheltered  and  secluded  nooks  of  cultivated  ground,  sometimes 
containing  a  single  farm,  sometimes  a  small  village  ;  such  is  the 
country,  and  such  are  the  scenes  to  which  our  story  tends. 

In  one  spot  the  mountainous  banks  loomed  close  and  dark 
over  the  river  ;  but  there  was  a  considerable  depth  of  rich  soil 
Among  the  rocks,  and  thrifty  trees  crowded  the  poverty-stricken 
rellow  pine  up  to  the  very  summit  of  each  beautiful  acclivity  ; 
for  half  a  mile  the  shadows  of  this  rough  bank  fell  nearly  across 
the  river,  but  all  at  once  it  parted  as  if  some  earthquake  had 
torn  it,  centuries  before,  and  there  lay  a  little  valley  opening 
upon  the  stream,  walled  on  one  hand  by  an  abrupt  precipice, 
and  on  the  other  by  a  steep  and  broken  hill,  its  crevices  choked 
up  by  wild  grape-vines,  mosses,  and  every  species  of  forest  tree 
that  can  be  found  among  the  high  grounds  of  Maine.  This  little 
valley  was  perhaps  half  a  mile  in  width,  and  cut  back  into  the 
mountains  twice  that  distance.  From  thence  the  highway 
wound  up  the  broken  bank,  and  was  lost  sight  of  among  the 
pine  trees  bristling  along  the  horizon. 

The  river  was  broad  at  this  point,  as  a  rich  flat  of  groves 
and  meadow  land  lay  on  the  opposite  side.  This  was  threaded 
by  a  turnpike,  connected  with  the  road  we  have  mentioned  by 
a  ferry-boat,  or  rather  ancient  scow,  in  which  two  old  men  of 
the  neighborhood  picked  up  a  tolerable  subsistence. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  events  already  related  in  the  course 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  91 

of  our  story,  a  plain,  one-horse  chaise  came  slowly  along  the 
highway,  and  bent  its  course  toward  the  ferry.  The  scow  had 
been  hauled  up  beneath  a  clump  of  willows,  and  two  old  men 
sat  in  the  shade,  waiting  for  customers.  They  saw  the  chaise, 
and  instantly  sprang  to  work,  pushing  the  scow  out  into  the 
stream,  and  bringing  it  up  with  a  clumsy  sweep  against  the 
carriage  track. 

The  chaise  contained  two  persons  ;  one  was  a  female,  in  a 
neat,  unostentatious  travelling  dress,  and  with  her  face  partially 
concealed  by  a  green  veil.  The  old  men  had  never  travelled  far 
beyond  the  river  which  afforded  them  support,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  air  and  general  appearance  of  the  lady,  which 
aroused  them  to  an  unusual  degree  of  curiosity. 

The  man,  too — there  was  much  in  his  air  and  dress  to  attract 
observation  ;  a  degree  of  rustic  awkwardness,  mingled  with 
self-confidence  and  a  sort  of  rude  strength,  that  struck  the  old 
men  as  unnatural  and  foreign.  The  chaise  was  soon  recognized 
as  belonging  to  the  landlord  in  a  neighboring  village  ;  but  the 
two  persons  who  rode  in  it  puzzled  them  exceedingly.  The  man 
in  the  chaise  drove  at  once  into  the  scow,  and,  stepping  out,  he 
took  his  horse  by  the  bit. 

"Now  move  on!"  he  said,  addressing  the  old  men  with  the 
air  of  one  who  understood  the  place  and  its  customs.  "  If  the 
horse  stands  steady,  I  will  lend  a  hand  directly." 

"  Oh,  he's  steady  enough  ;  we've  rowed  the  critter  across 
here  more  than  once  ;  he  ain't  shiey,  that  horse  ain't,"  answered 
one  of  the  men,  ready  to  open  a  conversation  on  any  subject. 

"That  may  be,  but  I'll  hold  him  just  now  and  see  how  he 
stands  the  water." 

There  w^f  nothing  in  this  to  open  a  fresh  vein  of  conversa 
tion  ;  so,  taking  up  their  poles,  the  two  old  men  pushed  their 
lumbering  craft  into  the  river,  casting  now  and  then  a  furtive 
glance  at  the  lady,  who  had  drawn  her  veil  aside,  and  sat  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  opposite  shore,  apparently  unmindful  of 
their  scrutiny. 

"  Purty,  ain't  she  ?"  whispered  one  of  the  men. 


92  FASHION      A  IN  D      FAMINE. 

The  other  nodded  his  head. 

"  A  sort  of  nat'ral  look  about  her,"  continued  the  man, 
drawing  back,  as  if  to  give  a  fresh  plunge  with  his  pole. 

"  Just  so,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

The  lady,  who  had,  up  to  this  time,  kept  her  eyes  eagerly 
bent  on  the  little  village  to  which  they  seemed  creeping  over 
the  water,  suddenly  addressed  them — 

"  There  are  three  houses  in  the  valley  now — that  nearest  the 
water,  to  whom  does  it  belong  ?" 

"That,  ma'am!  oh,  that's  the  new  tavern;  the  sign  isn't  so 
well  seen  when  the  leaves  are  out,  yet  if  you  look  close,  it's 
swinging  to  that  ar  willow  agin  the  house 

The  lady  cast  a  glance  toward  the  willow,  then  her  eyes 
seemed  to  pierce  into  the  depths  of  the  valley.  Beyond  the 
tavern  lay  an  apple  orchard,  and  back  of  that  rose  the  roof  of 
an  old  gray  house.  The  ridge  and  heavy  stone  chimney  alone 
were  visible  ;  but  the  old  building  seemed  to  fascinate  her 
gaze — she  bent  forward,  her  hands  were  clasped,  her  features 
grew  visibly  pale.  She  cast  an  earnest  look  at  the  old  man, 
and  attempted  to  speak  ;  but  the  effort  only  made  her  parted 
lips  turn  a  shade  whiter.  She  uttered  no  sound. 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,  ma'am,  there's  no  arthly  danger 
here  !"  said  one  of  the  men,  mistaking  the  source  of  her  emotion. 
"  I've  been  on  this  ferry  sixteen  years,  and  no  accident  has 
ever  happened  in  my  time.  You  couldn't  drown  here  if  you  was 
to  try." 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  quivering  smile,  that 
died  gently  away  as  her  gaze  became  more  earnest.  She  dwelt 
upon  his  withered  old  face,  as  if  trying  to  study  out  some  fami 
liar  feature  in  its  hard  lines.  s. 

"  Sixteen  years  !"  she  said,  and  the  smile  returned,  but  with 
an  additional  tinge  of  sadness,  "  sixteen  years  !" 

"  It  seems  a  long  time  to  you,  like  enough  ;  but  wait  till  you 
get  old  as  I  am,  and  see  how  short  it  is." 

The  lady  did  not  reply  ;  but  sinking  back  into  her  seat,  drew 
the  veil  over  her  face. 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  93 

All  this  time,  the  traveller,  who  still  held  the  horse  by  the 
bit,  had  been  regarding  the  lady  with  no  ordinary  appearance 
of  anxiety.  He  overheard  the  whispers  passing  between  the 
ferrymen,  and  seemed  annoyed  by  their  import.  He  was  evidently 
ill  at  ease.  When  the  scow  ran  with  a  grating  noise  upon  the 
shore,  he  gave  the  usual  fare  in  silence,  and  entering  the  chaise 
with  a  swinging  leap,  drove  toward  the  tavern. 

The  landlord,  who  had  just  arisen  from  an  early  supper, 
washed  down  by  a  cup  of  hard  cider,  came  indolently  from 
the  front  stoop  and  held  the  horse  while  the  travellers 
dismounted. 

"  Want  to  bait  the  horse  ?"  he  inquired,  pointing  toward 
a  wooden  trough  built  against  the  huge  trunk  of  the  wil 
low. 

"  Put  him  up — we  shall  stay  all  night,  replied  the  guest." 

The  landlord's  face  expanded  ;  it  was  not  often  that  his  house 
was  honored  by  travellers  of  a  higher  grade  than  the  teamsters, 
who  brought  private  fare  for  man  and  horse  with  them  ;  the 
same  bag  usually  containing  oats  or  corn  in  one  end,  and  a  box 
of  baked  beans,  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  a  wedge  of  dried  beef  in 
the  other — man  and  beast  dividing  accommodations  equally  on 
the  journey. 

"  Oats  or  grass  ?"  cried  the  good  man,  excited  by  the  rich 
prospects  before  him. 

"  Both,  with  two  rooms — supper  for  the  lady  in  her  own 
chamber — for  me,  anywhere." 

"  Supper  !"  cried  the  landlord,  with  a  crest-fallen  look, 
"  supper  !  We  haven't  a  morsel  of  fresh  meat,  nor  a  chicken 
on  the  place." 

"  But  there  is  trout  in  the  brook,  I  suppose,"  answered  the 
traveller. 

"  Wai,  how  did  you  know  that  ?  Been  in  these  parts  afore 
mebby." 

"These  hills  are  full  of  trout  streams,  everybody  knows  that, 
who  ever  heard  of  the  state,"  was  the  courteous  reply.  "  If 
you  have  a  pole  and  line  handy  perhaps  I  can  help  you." 


94  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

"  There  is  one  in  the  porch — I'll  just  turn  out  the  hors.e,  and 
show  you  the  way." 

The  traveller  seemed  glad  to  be  relieved  from  observation. 
He  turned  hurriedly  away,  and  taking  a  rude  fishing-rod  from 
the  porch  went  round  the  house,  and  crossing  a  meadow  behind 
it,  came  out  upon  the  banks  of  a  mountain  stream,  that  marked 
the  precipitous  boundaries  of  the  valley.  A  wild,  sparkling 
brook  it  was — broken  up  by  rocks  sinking  into  deep,  placid 
pools,  and  leaping  away  through  the  witch-hazels  and  brake 
leaves  that  overhung  it  with  a  soft,  gushing  murmur  so  sweet 
and  cheerful,  that  it  seemed  like  the  sunshine  laughing,  as  it 
was  drawn  away  to  the  hill  shadows. 

Jacob  Strong  looked  up  and  down  the  stream  with  a  sad 
countenance.  "  How  natural  everything  seems,"  he  muttered. 
"She  used  to  sit  here  on  this  very  stone,  with  her  little  fish-pole, 
and  send  me  off  yonder  after  box-wood  blossoms  and  wild  honey 
suckles,  while  she  dipped  her  feet  in  and  out  of  the  water,  just 
to  hurry  me  back  again.  Those  white  little  feet — how  I  did  love 
to  see  her  go  barefooted!  By  and  by,  as  she  grew  older,  how 
she  would  laugh  at  my  awkward  way  of  baiting  her  hook — she 
didn't  know  what  made  my  hand  tremble — no,  nor  never  will !" 

Jacob  sat  down  upon  the  stone  on  which  his  eyes  had  been 
riveted.  With  his  face  resting  between  his  hands,  an  elbow 
supported  By  each  knee,  and  his  feet  buried  in  a  hollow  choked 
up  with  wood  moss,  he  fell  into  one  of  those  profound  reveries, 
that  twine  every  fibre  of  the  heart  around  the  past.  The  fishing 
rod  lay  at  his  feet,  unheeded.  Just  beneath  his  eye,  was  a  deep 
pool,  translucent  as  liquid  diamond,  and  sleeping  at  the  bottom, 
were  three  or  four  fine  trout,  floating  upon  their  fins,  with  their 
mottled  sides  now  and  then  sending  a  soft  rainbow  gleam  through 
the  water. 

At  another  time,  Jacob,  who  had  been  a  famous  angler  in 
his  day,  would  have  been  excited  by  this  fine  prospect  of  sport  ; 
but  now  those  delicate  creatures,  balancing  themselves  in  the 
waves,  scarcely  won  a  passing  notice.  They  only  served  to  re 
mind  him  more  vividly  of  the  long  ago. 


FASHION      AND      PA 

He  was  aroused  by  the  landlord,  who 
pole  in  hand,  baiting  his  hook  as  he  walked  ul 
two  fine  trout,  strung  upon  a  forked  hazel  twig,  on  the  moss  at 
Jacob's  feet,  and  dropped  his  hook  into  the  pool. 

Jacob  watched  him  with  singular  interest.  His  eyes  gleamed 
as  he  saw  the  man  pull  his  fly  with  a  calm,  steady  hand  over 
the  surface  of  the  water,  now  dropping  it  softly  down,  now 
aiding  it  to  float  lazily  on  the  surface,  then  allowing  it  to  sink 
insidiously  before  the  graceful  creatures,  that  it  had  as  yet  failed 
to  excite. 

All  at  once,  a  noble  trout,  that  had  been  sleeping  beneath  a 
tuft  of  grass  over  which  the  water  flowed,  darted  into  the  pool 
with  a  swiftness  that  left  a  ripple  behind  him,  and  leaped  to  the 
fly.  Jacob  almost  uttered  a  groan,  as  he  saw  the  beautiful 
creature  lifted  from  the  wave,  his  fins  quivering,  his  jewelled 
sides  glistening  with  water  drops,  and  every  wild  evolution  full 
of  graceful  agony.  He  was  drawing  a  parallel  between  the 
tortured  trout  and  a  human  being,  whose  history  filled  his  heart* 
This  it  was  that  wrung  the  groan  from  his  heart. 

"  This  will  do  !"  said  the  landlord,  gently  patting  the  damp 
sides  of  his  prize,  and  thrusting  the  hazel  twig  under  his  gills, 
"  You're  sartin  of  a  supper,  sir,  and  a  good  one  too — they'll  be 
hissing  on  the  gridiron  long  before  you  get  to  the  house,  I 
reckon, without  you  make  up  your  mind  to  go  along  with  me." 

"  Not  yet ;  I  will  try  my  luck  further  up  the^  stream,"  an 
swered  Jacob,  and  snatching  up  the  rod,  he  plunged  through  a 
clump  of  elders,  and  disappeared  on  the  opposite  bank.  But 
the  man  was  scarcely  out  of  sight,  when  he  returned  again  and 
resumed  his  old  position. 

Again  he  fell  into  thought — deep  and  painful  thought.  You 
could  see  it  in  the  quiver  of  his  rude  features,  in  the  mistiness 
that  gathered  over  his  eyes. 

The  afternoon  shadows  were  beginning  to  lengthen  across 
the  valley,  but  they  only  served  to  plunge  poor  Jacob  into  mem 
ories  still  more  bitter  and  profound.  Everything  within  sight 
seemed  clamoring  to  him  of  the  past.  Near  by  was  a  clover- 


96  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

field  ruddy  with  blossoms,  and  broken  with  clumps  and  ridges 
of  golden  butter-cups  and  swamp  lilies.  Again  the  little  girl 
stood  before  him — a  fair,  sweet  child,  with  chestnut  curls  and 
large  earnest  eyes,  who  had  waited  in  a  corner  of  the  fence, 
while  he  gathered  armsful  of  these  field-blossoms,  for  her  to  toss 
about  in  the  sunshine.  On  the  other  hand  lay  an  apple 
orchard,  with  half  a  dozen  tall  pear  trees,  ranging  along  the 
fence.  He  remembered  climbing  those  trees  a  hundred  times 
up  to  the  very  top,  where  the  pears  were  most  golden  and  ripe. 
He  could  almost  hear  the  rich  fruit  as  it  went  tumbling  and 
rustling  through  the  leaves,  down  to  the  snow-white  apron  held 
up  to  receive  it.  That  ringing  shout  of  laughter,  as  the  apron 
gave  way  beneath  its  luscious  burden — it  rang  through  his  heart 
again,  and  made  a  child  of  him. 

The  shadows  grew  deeper  upon  the  valley,  dew  began  to  fall, 
and  every  gush  of  air  that  swept  over  the  fields,  became  more 
and  more  fragrant.  Still  Jacob  dwelt  with  the  past.  The  lady 
at  the  inn  was  forgotten.  He  was  roaming  amid  those  sweet 
scenes  with  that  wild,  mischievous,  beautiful  girl,  when  a  hand 
fell  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  started  up  and  began  to  tremble  as  if  caught  in  some  deep 
offence. 

"  Madam — oh,  madam  !  what  brought  you  here  ?" 

"  I  could  not  stay  in  that  new  house,  Jacob.  It  was  so  close 
I  could  not  breathe.  The  air  of  this  valley  penetrates  my  very 
heart — but  I  cannot  shed  a  tear.  Is  it  so  with  you,  Jacob 
Strong  ?" 

Jacob  turned -his  head  away;  he  could  not  all  at  once  arouse 
himself  from  the  deep  delirium  of  his  memories  ;  his  strong  brain 
ached  with  the  sudden  transition  her  presence  bad  forced  upon 
it.  Ada  looked  searchingly  up  the  valley,  and  made  a  step 
forward. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  madam,  not  up  yonder — not  to  the 
old  house  ?" 

"  I  must  go,  Jacob — this  suspense  is  choking  me — I  could  not 
live  another  hour  without  learning  something  of  them." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  97 

"  No,  not  yet,  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  go  yet." 

Ada  Leicester  turned  abruptly  toward  her  humble  friend  ;  her 
lips  UTOW  very  pale. 

"  Why,  why  ?  have  you  inquired  ?  have  you  heard  anything?" 

"  No,  I  did  not  like  to  ask  questions  at  first." 

""Then  you  know  absolutely  nothing  ?" 

"  Nothing  yet  !» 

"  But  yomhave  seen  the  old  house.  It  should  be  visible  from 
this  hollow  !"  ^ 

"  Not  now,  madam.  The  orchard  has  grown  round  since — 
since " 

"  Have  the  saplings  grown  into  trees  since  then,  Jacob?  In 
deed  it  seems  but  like  yesterday  to  me,"  said  the  lady,  with  a 
sad  wave  of  the  hand.  "  I  thought  to  get  a  view  of  the  house 
from  this  spot,  just  as  one  ponders  over  the  seal  of  a  letter, 
afraid  to  read  the  news  within.  Let  me  sit  down,  I  feel  tired 
and  faint." 

Jacob  moved  back  from  the  stone,  and  tears  absolutely  came 
into  his  eyes  as  she  sat  down. 

"  How  strangely  familiar  everything  is,"  said  the  lady,  look 
ing  around,  "  this  tuft  of  white  flowers  close  by  the  stone — 
it  scarcely  seems  to  have  been  out  of  blossom  since  I  was  here 
last,  I  remember.  But  why  have  you  crushed  them  with  your 
feet,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Because  I  remember  !"  answered  the  man,  removing  his 
heavy  foot  from  the  bruised  flowers,  and  regarding  them  with  a 
stem  curve  of  the  lip,  which  on  his  irregular  mouth  was  strangely 
impressive.  The  lady  raised  her  eyes,  filled  with  vague  wonder, 
to  his  features.  Jacob  was  troubled  by  that  questioning  glance. 

"  I  never  loved  flowers,"  he  faltered. 

"  You  never  loved  flowers!    Oh,  Jacob,  how  can  you  say  so  ?" 

"  Not  that  kind,  at  any  rate,  ma'am,"  answered  Jacob,  almost 
vehemently,  pointing  down  with  his  finger.  "  The  last  time  I 
came  this  way,  a  snake  was  creeping  round  among  those  very 
flowers.  That  snake  left  poison  on  everything  it  touched,  at  least 
in  this  valley." 

5 


98  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

The  lady  gazed  on  his  excited  face  a  moment  very  earnestly. 
Then  the  broad,  white  lids  drooped  over  her  eyes,  and  she  only 
answered  with  a  profound  sigh. 

The  look  of  humble  repentance  that  fell  upon  Jacob's  face 
was  painful  to  behold.  He  stood  uneasily  upon  his  feet,  gazing 
down  upon  the  tuft  of  flowers  his  passion  had  trampled  to  the 
earth.  His  large  hands,  with  their  loosely  knit  joints,  became 
nervously  restless,  and  he  east  furtive  glances  at  jthe  face  and 
downcast  features  of  the  lady.  He  c^mld  not  speak,  but  waited 
for  her  to  address  him  again,  in  his  heart  of  hearts  sorry  for  the 
painful  thoughts  his  words  had  aroused.  At  length  he  ventured 
to  speak,  and  the  humble,  deprecating  tones  of  his  voice  were 
almost  painful  to  hear. 

"  The  dews  are  falling,  ina'am,  and  you  are  not  used  to  sitting 
in  the  damp." 

"  There  was  a  time,"  said  the  lady,  "  when  a  little  night  dew 
would  not  drive  me  in  doors." 

"  But  now  you  are  tired  and  hungry." 

"  No,  Jacob,  I  can  neither  taste  food  nor  take  rest  till  we 
have  been  yonder — perhaps  not  then,  for  Heaven  only  knows 
what  tidings  may  reach  us.  Go  in  and  get  some  supper  for 
yourself,  my  good  friend." 

Jacob  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  wrong,"  persisted  the  lady  ;  "let  me  sit  here  till  the 
dusk  comes  on;  then  I  will  find  my  way  to  the  house — perhaps 
I  may  sleep  there  to-night,  Jacob,  who  knows  ?"  She  paused 
a  moment,  and  added,  "  If  they  are  alive,  but  surely  I  need  not 
say  if.  They  must  be  alive." 

"  I  hope  so,"  answered  Jacob,  pitying  the  wistful  look  with 
which  the  poor  lady  searched  his  features,  hoping  to  gather 
confidence  from  their  expression. 

"And  yet  my  heart  is  so  heavy,  so  full  of  this  terrible  pain, 
Jacob.  Leave  me  now;  if  any  thing  can  make  me  cry,  it  will 
be  sitting  here  alone." 

Jacob  turned  away,  without  a  word  of  remonstrance.  Hia 
own  rude,  honest  heart  was  full,  and  the  sickening  anxiety 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  99 

manifest  in  every  tone  and  look  of  his  mistress  was  fast  under 
mining  his  own  manhood.  He  did  not  return  to  the  tavern, 
however,  but  clambering  over  a  fence,  leaped  into  the  clover 
field,  and  wading,  knee-deep,  through  the  fragrant  blossoms, 
made  his  way  toward  the  old  farm-house,  whose  chimney  and 
low,  sloping  roof  became  more  and  more  visible  with  each  step. 

On  he  went,  with  huge,  rapid  strides,  resolute  to  carry  back 
some  tidings  to  the  unhappy  woman  he  had  just  left.  "  I  will 
see  them  first,"  he  muttered;  "they  might  not  know  her,  or 
may  have  heard.  It  ain't  likely,  though — who  could  bring 
such  news  into  these  parts  ?  Anyhow,  I  will  see  that  nothing 
is  done  to  hurt  her  feelings." 

Full  of  these  thoughts,  Jacob  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
old  house.  He  crossed  the  clover  lot,  and  a  fine  meadow,  whose 
thick,  waving  grass  was  still  too  green  for  the  scythe,  lay  be 
fore  him,  bathed  in  the  last  rays  of  a  midsummer  sunset.  Bc- 
yorid  this  meadow  rose  the  farm-house,  silent  .and  picturesque 
in  the  waning  day,  with  gleams  of  golden  light  here  and  there 
breaking  over  the  mossed  old  roof.  Jacob  paused,  with  his 
hand  upon  an  upper  rail  of  the  fence.  His  heart  misgave  him. 
Every  object  was  so  painfully  familiar,  that  he  shrunk  from 
approaching  nearer.  There  was  the  garden  sloping  away  from 
the  old  dwelling,  with  a  line  of  cherry  trees  running  along  the 
fence,  and  shading  triple  rows  of  currant  and  gooseberry  bushes, 
now  bent  to  the  ground  with  a  load  of  crimson  and  purple  fruit. 
There  was  the  well  sweep,  with  its  long,  round  bucket  swing 
ing  to  the  breeze,  and  the  pear  tree  standing  by,  like  an  ancient 
sentinel  staunch  at  his  post,  and  verdant  in  its  thrifty  old  age. 
A  stone  or  two  had  fallen  from  the  rough  chimney,  and  on  the 
sloping  roof  lay  a  greenish  tinge,  betraying  the  velvety  growth 
of  moss  with  which  time  had  dotted  the  decayed  shingles,  while 
clumps  of  house-leeks  clustered  here  and  there  in  masses  from 
under  their  warped  edges. 

Silent  and  solemnly  quiet  stood  that  old  dwelling  amid  the 
dying  light  which  filled  the  valley.  A  few  jetty  birds  were 
fluttering  in  and  out  of  a  martin-box  at  one  end,  and  that  was 


100  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

all  the  sign  of  life  that  appeared  to  the  strained  eyes  of  Jacob 
Strong.  He  stood,  minute  after  minute,  waiting  for  a  sight  of 
some  other  living  object — a  horse  grazing  at  the  back  door — a 
human  being  approaching  the  well,  anything  alive  would  ha  ye 
given  relief  to  his  full  heart. 

He  could  contain  himself  no  longer:  a  desperate  wish  to  learn 
at  once  all  that  could  give  joy  or  pain  to  his  mistress  possessed 
him.  He  sprang  into  the  meadow,  found  a  path  trodden  through 
the  grass,  and  sweeping  the  tall,  golden  lilies  aside,  where  they 
fell  over  the  narrow  way,  he  strode  eagerly  forward,  and  soon 
found  himself  in  a  garden.  It  was  full  of  coarse  vegetables,  and 
gay  with  sun-flowers  ;  tufts  of  "love-lies-bleeding"  drooped 
around  the  gate,  and  flowering  beans,  tangled  with  morning- 
glories,  half  clothed  the  worm-eaten  fence. 

Coarse  and  despised  as  some  of  these  flowers  are,  how  elo 
quently  they  spoke  to  the  heart  of  Jacob  Strong!  The  very 
sun-flowers,  as  they  turned  their  great  dials  to  the  West,  seemed 
to  him  redolent  and  golden  with  the  light  of  other  days.  They 
filled  his  heart  with  new  hope ;  since  the  eo,rliest  hour  of  his 
remembrance,  those  massive  blossoms  had  never  been  wanting 
at  the  old  homestead. 

Again  the  objects  became  more  and  more  familiar.  The 
plantain  leaves  about  the  we'll  seemed  to  have  kept  their  green 
ness  for  years.  The  grindstone,  with  a  trough  half  full  of  water, 
stood  in  its  old  place  by  the  back  porch.  Surely,  while  such 
things  remained,  the  human  beings  that  had  lived  and  breathed 
in  that  lone  dwelling,  could  not  be  entirely  swept  away ! 

Jacob  Strong  entered  the  porch  and  knocked  gently  at  the 
door.  A  voice  from  within  bade  him  enter,  and,  lifting  the 
latch,  he  stood  in  a  long,  low  kitchen,  where  two  men,  a  woman, 
and  a  chubby  little  girl,  sat  at  supper.  One  of  the  men,  a  stout, 
sun-burned  fellow,  arose,  and  placing  a  splint-bottomed  chair 
for  his  guest,  quietly  resumed  his  place  at  the  table,  while  the 
child  sat  with  a  spoon  half  way  to  its  mouth,  gazing  with  eyes 
full  of  wonder  at  the  strange  man. 

Jacob  stood  awkwardly  surveying  the  group.     A  chill  of  keen 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  101 

disappointment  fell  upon  him.  Of  the  four  persons  seated  around 
that  table,  not  one  face  was  familiar.  He  sat  down  and  looked 
ruefully  around.  A  single  tallow  caudle  standing  on  the  table 
shed  its  faint  light  through  the  room,  but  failed  to  reveal  the 
troubled  look  that  fell  upon  the  visitor.  The  silence  that  he 
maintained  seemed  to  astonish  the  family.  The  farmer  turned 
in  his  chair,  and  at  last  opened  a  discourse  after  his  own  hos 
pitable  fashion. 

"  Sit  by  and  take  a  bite  of  supper,"  he  said,  white  his  wife  arose 
and  went  to  a  corner  cupboard. 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  answered  Jacob,  with  an  effort;  for  the 
words  seemed  blocking  up  his  throat. 

"You  had  better  sit  by,"  observed  the  wife,  modestly,  coming 
from  the  cupboard  with  a  plate  and  knife  in  her  hands. 
""There's  nothing  very  inviting,  but  you'll  be  welcome." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jacob,  rising,  "  I'm  not  hungry  ;  but  if 
you've  got  a  cup  handy,  I  will  get  a  drink  at  the  well." 

The  farmer  took  a  white  earthen  bowl  from  the  table,  and, 
reaching  forward,  handed  it  to  his  guest. 

"  And  welcome  !  but  you'll  find  the  well-pole  rather  hard  to 
pull,  I  calculate." 

Jacob  took  the  bowl  and  went  out.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
a  draught  from  that  moss-covered  bucket  would  drive  away  the 
chill  that  had  fallen  on  his  heart  at  the  sight  of  those  strange 
faces. 

He  sat  the  bowl  down  among  the  plantain  leaves,  and  seiz 
ing  the  pole,  plunged  the  old  bucket  deep  into  the  well.  When 
it  came  up  again,  full  and  dripping,  he  balanced  it  on  the  curb 
and  drank.  After  this,  he  lingered  a  brief  time  by  the  well, 
filled  with  disappointment,  and  striving  to  compose  his  thoughts. 
At  length  he  entered  the  house  again  with  more  calm  and  fixed 
resolution. 

"This  seems  to  be  a  fine  place  of  yours,"  he  said,  taking  the 
chair  once  more  offered  to  his  acceptance,  and  addressing  the 
farmer.  "  That  was  as  pretty  a  meadow  I  just  crossed  as  one 
might  wish  to  seel" 


102  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Yes,  there  is  some  good  land  between  this  and  the  brook," 
answered  the  man,  pleased  with  these  commendations  of  his 
property. 

"  You  keep  it  in  good  order,  too  ;  such  timothy  I  have  not 
seen  these  five  years." 

"  Wai,  true  enough,  one  may  call  that  grass  a  little  mite 
superior  to  the  common  run,  I  do  think  !"  answered  the  farmer, 
taking  his  chubby  little  daughter  on  one  knee,  and  smoothing 
her  thick  hair  with  both  his  hard  palms.  "  Considering  how 
the  old  place  was  run  down  when  we  took  it,  we  haven't  got 
much  to  be  ashamed  of,  anyhow." 

"  You  have  not  always  owned  the  farm  ?"  Jacob's  voice 
shook  as  he  asked  the  question,  but  the  farmer  was  busy  caress 
ing  his  child,  and  only  observed  the  import  of  his  words,  not  the 
tone  in  which  they  were  uttered. 

"  I  rayther  think  you  must  be  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  for 
everybody  knows  how  long  I've  been  upon  the  place;  nigh  upon 
ten  years,  isn't  it,  Mabel  ?" 

"  Ten  years  last  spring,"  replied  the  woman,  in  a  pleasant, 
low  tone  ;  "  jist  three  years  before  Lucy  was  born." 

"That's  it !  she's  as  good  as  an  almanac  at  dates  ;  could  beat 
a  hull  class  of  us  boys  at  cyphering  when  we  went  to  school 
together,  couldn't  you,  Mabel  ?" 

The  wife  answefed  with  a  blush,  and  a  good-humored  smile 
divided  cordially  between  her  husband  and  Jacob. 

"  You  must  not  think  us  over-shiftless,"  she  said,  "  for  living 
in  the  old  house  so  long  ;  we've  talked  of  building  every  year, 
but  somehow  the  right  time  hasn't  come  yet  ;  besides,  my  old 
man  don't  exactly  like  to  tear  the  old  house  down." 

"Tear  it  down!"  cried  Jacob,  with  a  degree  of  feeling  that 
surprised  the  worthy  couple — "  tear  the  old  homestead  down  ! 
don't  do  it — don't  do  it,  friend.  There  are  people  in  the  world 
who  would  give  a  piece  of  gold  for  every  shingle  on  the  roof 
rather  than  see  a  beam  loosened." 

"I  guess  you  must  have  been  in  this  neighborhood  afore 
this,"  said  the  farmer,  looking  at  his  wife  with  shrewd  surprise  ; 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  103 

"know  something  about  the  old  homestead,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  P 

"  Yes,  I  passed  through  here  many  years  ago  ;  a  man  at  that 
time,  older  than  you  are  now,  lived  on  the  place  ;  his  name  was 
—let  me  think " 

"  Wilcox — was  that  the  name  ?" 

41  Yes,  that  was  it — a  tall  man,  with  dark  eyes." 

"  That's  the  man,  poor  old  fellow  ;  why  we  bought  the  farm 
of  him." 

"  I  wonder  he  ever  brought  himself  to  part  with  it  !  His 
wife  seemed  so  fond  of  the  place,  and — and  his  daughter  :  he 
had  a  daughter,  if  I  recollect  right  ?" 

44  Yes,  we  heard  so  ;  I  never  saw  her  ;  but  the  folks  around 
here  talk  about  her  wild,  bright  ways,  and  her  good  looks,  to 
this  day  ;  a  harnsome,  smart  gal  she  was  if  what  they  say  can 
be  relied  on." 

"  But  what  became  of  her  ?  Did  she  settle  anywhere  in 
these  parts  ?"• 

"Wai,  no,  I  reckon  not.  A  young  fellow  from  somewhere 
about  Boston  or  York,  come  up  the  river  one  summer  to  hunt 
and  fish  in  the  hills,  he  married  the  gal,  and  carried  her  off  to 
the  city." 

"  And  did  she  never  come  back  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  a  year  or  two  after,  the  young  man  come  and 
brought  a  little  girl  with  him,  the  purtyest  creature  you  ever 
sat  eyes  on.  Hard  words  passed  between  him  and  the  old  man, 
for  Wilcox  wouldn't  let  any  human  being  breathe  a  whisper 
agin  his  daughter.  Nobody  ever  knew  exactly  what  happened, 
but  the  young  man  went  away  and  left  his  child  with  the  old 
people.  It  wasn't  long  after  this  before  the  old  man  kinder 
seemed  to  give  up,  he  and  his  wife  too,  just  as^if  that  bright  lit 
tle  grandchild  had  brought  a  canker  into  the  house. 

"  After  that  things  went  wrong,  nothing  on  earth  could  make 
the  old  people  neighborly;  they  gin  up  going  to  meeting,  and  sat 
all  Sunday  long  on  the  hearth,  there,  looking  into  the  fire.  Wai, 
you  know  the  best  of  us  will  talk  when  anything  happens  that 


104  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

is  not  quite  understood.  Some  said  one  thing,  and  some  another, 
and  Wilcox,  arter  a  while,  got  so  shy  of  his  neighbors  that  they 
took  a  sort  of  distaste  to  him." 

"Did  the  old  people  live  alone  after  their  daughter  went 
away  ?"  asked  Jacob,  in  a  husky  voice.  "  There  was  a  young 
man  or  boy  in  the  family  when  I  knew  anything  about  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  jist  remember,  there  was  a  young  chap  that  Mr. 
Wilcox  brought  up — a  clever  critter  as  ever  lived.  He  went 
away  just  arter  the  gal  was  married,  and  nobody  ever  knew 
what  became  of  him.  People  thought  the  old  man  pined  about 
that  too  :  at  any  rate,  one  thing  and  another  broke  him  down, 
and  his  wife  with  him." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Wilcox  and  his  wife  are 
dead  ?" 

The  farmer  turned  his  eyes  suddenly  on  the  form  of  Jacob 
Strong,  as  these  words  were  uttered,  for  there  was  something 
in  the  tone  that  took  his  honest  heart  by  surprise.  Jacob  sat 
before  him  like  a  criminal,  pale,  and  shrinking  in  his  cliair. 

"  No,  I  did  not  mean  to  say  that  they  died,  but  when  a  tongh, 
cheerful  man,  like  Wilcox,  gives  up,  it  is  worse  than  death." 

"  What  happened  then — where  did  he  go  ?  is  the  child  liv 
ing  ?"  almost  shouted  Jacob  Strong,  unable  to  control  the  agony 
of  his  impatience  a  moment  longer  ;  but  the  astonished  loojv  of 
his  auditors  checked  the  burst  of  impetuous  feeling,  and  he  con 
tinued  more  quietly — 

"  I  took  an  interest  in  this  family  long  ago,  and  stopped  iu 
the  valley  over  night,  on  purpose  to  visit  the  old  gentleman.  I 
had  no  idea  he  would  ever  leave  the  farm,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  strangers  here,  more  so  than  you  could  have  been  at  seeing 
me.  Tell  me  now  where  the  Wilcox  family  can  be  found  ?" 

"  That  is  more,  by  half,  than  I  know  myself,"  answered  the 
farmer.  "  I  bought  the  farm,  paid  cash  down  for  everything, 
kind,  stock,  furniture,  and  all." 

"  But  where  did  they  go?-"  cried  Jacob,  breathless  with  sus 
pense. 

"To   Portland;  they  took  one  wagon  load  of  things,  and 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  105 

when  the  teamster  came  back,  he  said  they  were  left  in  the  hold 
of  a  schooner  lying  at  the  "wharf." 

"  But  where  was  she  bound  ? — what  was  her  name  ?" 

"  That  was  exactly  what  we  asked  the  teamster,  but  he  could 
tell  nothing  about  it ;  and  from  that  day  to  this,  no  person  in 
these  parts  has  ever  heard  a  word  about  them  1" 

Jacob  arose  and  supported  himself  by  his  chair. 

"  And  is  this  all  ?    Gone,  no  one  knows  where  ?    Is  this  all  ?" 

"  All  that  I  or  any  one  else  can  tell  you,"  answered  the  kind- 
hearted  farmer. 

"  But  the  teamster,  where  is  he  ?" 

"  Dead  1" 

Jacob  left  the  house  without  another  word.  He  knew  that 
these  tidings  would  be  more  terrible  to  another  than  they  had 
been  to  him,  and  yet  that  seemed  scarcely  possible,  for  all  the 
rude  strength  of  his  nature  was  prostrated  by  the  news  that  he 
heard. 

The  twilight  had  given  place  to  a  full  moon,  and  all  the  val 
ley  lay  flooded  in  a  sea  of  silver.  The  meadows  were  full  of  fire 
flies,  and  a  whip-poor-will  on  the  mountain-side  poured  his 
mournful  cry  upon  the  air.  Jacob  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  meeting  his  friend  and  mistress,  with  tidings  that  he  knew 
would  rend  her  heart.  He  left  the  homestead,  tortured  by  all 
that  he  had  heard,  and  plunged  into  a  hollow  which  opened  to 
the  trout  stream.  In  this  hollow  stood  a  tall  elm  tree,  with 
great,  sweeping  branches,  that  drooped  almost  to  the  ground. 
A  spring  of  never-failing  water  gushed  out  from  a  rocky  bank, 
which  it  shaded,  and  the  sweet  gurgle  of  its  progress  as  it  flowed 
away  through  the  cowslips  and  blue  flag  that  choked  up  the 
outlet  to  the  mountain  streams,  fell  like  the  memory  of  an  old 
love  upon  his  senses.  » 

He  drew  near  the  tree,  and  there,  sitting  upon  the  fragment 
of  rock,  with  her  head  resting  against  the  rugged  trunk  of  the 
elm,  sat  Ada  Leicester.  Her  face  shone  white  in  the  moon 
beams,  and  Jacob  could  hear  her  sobs  long  before  she  was  con 
scious  of  his  presence. 

5* 


106  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

She  heard  his  approach,  and  starting  to  her  feet,  came  out 
into  the  full  light.  The  hand  with  which  she  wildly  seized 
his  was  damp  and  cold,  and  he  could  see  that  heavy  tear-drops 
were  trembling  on  her  cheek. 

"  You — you  have  seen  them — are  they  alive  ?  I  saw  you  go 
in,  and  have  been  waiting  all  this  time.  Tell  me,  Jacob,  will 
they  let  me  sleep  in  the  old  house  to-night  ?" 

"  They  are  all  gone  ;  no  one  of  the  whole  family  are  there  !" 
answered  Jacob  Strong,  too  much  excited  for  ordinary  pru 
dence. 

A  wild  cry,  scarcely  louder  than  the  scream  of  a  bird,  but 
oh,  how  full  of  agony  I  rang  down  the  valley,  and  terror-stricken 
at  what  he  had  done,  Jacob  saw  his  mistress  lying  at  his  feet, 
her  deathly  face,  her  lifeless  hands,  and  the  white  shawl  which 
she  had  flung  about  her,  huddled  together  in  the  pale  moonlight. 

The  strong  man  lost  all  self-control.  He  looked  fiercely 
around,  as  if  some  one  might  attempt  to  stop  him  ;  then  gath 
ered  Ada  Leicester  up  in  his  huge  arms,  and  folded  her  close  to 
his  bosom.  It  was  not  a  light  burden  to  carry  ;  but  he  neither 
wavered  nor  paused,  but  strode  down  the  hollow,  folding  her 
tighter  and  tighter  against  his  heart  ;  and  a  joy  broke  over  his 
features,  as  the  moonlight  fell  upon  them,  that  seemed  scarcely 
human. 

"  Ada  Wilcox — little  Ada — I  have  carried  you  so  a  thousand 
times.  Then,  Ada,  you  would  lift  up  your  little  arms,  and  fold 
them  over  my  neck,  and  lay  your  cheek  against  mine,  as  it  is 
now,  Ada." 

His  face  sunk  slowly  toward  hers.     He  gave  a  sudden  start. 

"God forgive  me  !  oh,  Ada,  forgive  me  1" broke  from  him,  as 
he  looked  down  upon  the  pale  forehead  which  his  lips  had  almost 
pressed. 

He  stood  still,  holding  his  breath,  trembling  in  all  his  limbs, 
and  beginning  to  move  to  and  fro,  as  he  perceived  that  her  pale 
eyelids  began  to  quiver  in  the  moonlight. 

It  was  a  delusion  ;  the  fainting  fit  had  been  too  sudden  ;  the 
exhaustion  complete.  She  lay  in  his  arms  like  one  from 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  107 

whom  life  had  just  departed — her  pale  limbs  relaxed — her  eye 
lids  closed.  He  stood  thus  awhile,  and  then  she  began  to  move 
in  his  arms. 

"  Do  not  move,  Ada — Ada  Wilcox  ;  it  is  Jacob,  your  father's 
bound  boy.  We  are  all  alone,  in  the  home  meadow.  He  has 
carried  you  down  to  the  brook  a  thousand  times,  when  you 

knew  all  about  it  and  laughed  and — and ;  not  yet — -not 

yet,"  he  said  passionately  ;  "  you  are  not  strong  enough  to 
stand  alone." 

Still  she  struggled,  for  in  his  excitement  he  girded  her  form 
with  those  strong  arms,  till  the  pain  restored  her  to  con 
sciousness. 

"  Not  yet — oh,  not  yet,"  he  pleaded,  feeling  the  strong  heart 
within  him  sink  with  each  faint  struggle  that  she  made  ;  "you 
cannot  stand — the  grass  is  deep  and  damp — be  still — I  am 
strong  as  an  ox,  Ada — I  can  carry  you." 

"  Is  it  you,  Jacob  Strong  ?"  she  said,  but  half  conscious. 

"Yes,"  said  Jacob  in  a  choked  voice,  "it's  me,  your  father's 
bound  boy  ;  we  are  in  the  old  home  lot  again.  I — I — it  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  carried  you  in  my  arms,  Ada  Wilcox." 

"  Ada  Wilcox  !"  said  the  woman,  with  a  start ;  "let  me 
down,  Jacob  Strong  ;  my  name  is  not  Ada  Wilcox  ;  all  that  bore 
that  name  are  gone  ;  the  homestead  is  full  of  strangers  ;  Wil 
cox  is  a  dead  name ;  that  of  Leicester  has  crept  over  it  like 
night-shade  over  a  grave." 

Jacob  Strong  unfolded  his  arms  so  abruptly,  that  Ada  almost 
fell  to  the  earth. 

"  I  had  forgotten  that  name,"  he  said  with  mournful 
sternness. 

The  poor  woman  attempted  to  stand  up,  but  she  wavered, 
and  her  pale  face  was  lifted  with  piteous  helplessness  toward 
him. 

"  No,  Jacob,  I  tremble — this  blow  has  taken  all  my  life. 
Help  me  to  stand  up,  that  I  may  look  on  the  old  homestead 
once  more.  How  often  have  we  looked  upon  it  from  this 
spot  1" 


108  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  I  remember,"  answered  Jacob,  "the  moonlight  lies  upon  the 
roof  as  it  did  that  night  ;  the  old  pear  tree  had  stretched  its 
shadow  just  to  the  garden  fence." 

Jacob  Strong  grew  pale  in  the  moonlight.  Ada  felt  his  arm 
shake  beneath  the  grasp  of  her  hand. 

"  You  shiver  with  the  cold,"  she  said. 

"It  is  cold,  madam  ;  the  dew  is  heavy  ;  I  will  go  forward 
and  break  a  path  through  the  grass.  It  will  not  be  the  first 
time." 

Jacob  moved  on,  tramping  down  the  grass,  and  casting  his 
long,  uncouth  shadow  before  her,  in  the  moonlight.  She  fol 
lowed  him  in  silence,  casting  back  mournful  glances  at  the  old 
homestead. 

Jacob  paused  to  let  down  a  heavy  set  of  bars  that  divided 
the  meadow  from  the  trout  stream.  He'  jerked  them  fiercely 
from  their  sockets  in  the  tall  chestnut  posts,  dropping  them 
down  on  each  other  with  a  noise  that  rang  strangely  through 
the  stillness.  Ada  Leicester  passed  through  the  opening,  and 
moved  slowly  toward  the  tavern.  She  reached  the  door,  but 
turned  again  to  her  attendant. 

"  Jacob,"  she  said,  very  sorrowfully,  "  I  am  all  alone  now, 
in  the  wide  world  ;  you  will  not  leave  me  ?" 

11  Ada  Wilcox,  I  have  not  deserved  that  question,"  said  Ja 
cob,  pushing  open  the  door. 

She  shrunk  through  timidly,  perhaps  expecting  her  servant 
to  follow ;  but  he  closed  the  door  and  rushed  away,  leaping  the 
pile  of  bars  with  a  bound,  and  plunging  back  into  the  meadow. 

"  Leave  her  !"  he  said,  dashing  the  tall  herds-grass  aside 
with  his  hand  ;  "  Leave  her,  as  if  I  warn't  her  slave — her  dog 
— her  jackall,  and  had  been  ever  since  I  was  a  shaver,  so  small 
that  this  very  grass  would  have  closed  over  my  head;  and  yet  she 
don't  know  why — thinks  it's  the  wages,  may  be.  It  never  enters 
her  head  that  I've  got  a  soul  to  love  and  hate  with.  What  did  I 
follow  her  and  that  man  to  foreign  parts  for,  but  to  stand  ready 
when  her  time  of  trouble  came  ?  What  did  J  give  up  my  free- 
born  American  birthright  for,  and  put  that  gold  lace,  and 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  109 

darn'd  etarual  cockade  over  my  hat,  liko  an  English  white 
nigger,  only  because  I  couldn't  stand  by  her  in  any  other  way  ? 
What  is  it  that  makes  me  humble  as  a  rabbit,  sometimes,  and 
then,  again,  snarling  around  like  a  dog  ?  She  don't  see  it ;  she 
believes  me  when  I  tell  her  that  it  was  a  hankering  to  see  for 
eign  parts,  that  sent  me  over  sea  ;  and  that  I,  a  freeborn  Ameri 
can  citizen,  have  a  nat'ral  fancy  to  gold  bands  and  cockades,  as 
if  the  thing  wasn't  jist  impossible  !  True  enough,  she  don't 
want  me  to  wear  them  now  ;  but  if  she  did,  it's  my  solemn  be 
lief  that  I  should  do  it,  jist  here,  in  sight  of  the  old  homestead. 

"  The  old  homestead,"  he  continued,  standing  still  in  the 
grass,  and  looking  toward  the  old  home,  till  the  bitter  mood 
passed  from  his  heart,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Oh,  if 
I  was  only  his  bound  boy  again,  and  she  a  little  girl,  and  the 
old  folks  up  yonder.  I  would  be  a  nigger — a  hound — anything, 
if  she  could  only  stand  here,  as  she  did  then — as  innocent  arid 
sweet  a  critter  as  ever  drew  breath.  But  he  did  it — that  vil 
lain  I  Oh,  if  he  could  be  extarminated  from  the  face  of  the 
earth  !  It  wan't  her  fault — I  defy  the  face  of  man  to  say  that. 
It  was  the  original  sin  in  her  own  heart." 

Poor  Jacob  !  All  his  massive  strength  was  exhausted  now. 
He  even  ceased  to  mutter  over  the  sad,  sad  memories  that 
crowded  on  him.  But  all  that  night  he  wandered  about  the 
old  homestead — now  lost  beneath  its  pear  trees — now  casting 
his  uncouth  shadow  across  the  barn-yard,  where  half  a  dozen 
slumbering  cows  lifted  their  heads  and  gazed  earnestly  after 
him,  as  if  waiting  for  the  intruder  to  be  gone.  There  was  not 
a  nook  or  corner  of  the  old  place  that  he  did  not  visit  that 
night,  and  the  morning  found  him  cold,  sad  and  pale,  waiting 
for  his  mistress  at  the  tavern  door. 

Just  after  daylight,  the  one-horse  chaise  crossed  the  ferry 
again.  The  old  boatmen  would  gladly  have  conversed  a  little 
with  its  inmates,  but  Jacob  only  answered  them  in  monosylla 
bles,  and  they  could  not  see  the  lady's  face,  so  closely  was  it 
shrouded  with  the  folds  of  her  travelling  veil. 


'     1m 


110  FASHION      AND     FAMINE 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE     CITY     C  OTTAGE. 

Alas,  that  woman's  love  should  cling 

To  hearts  that  never  feel  its  worth, 
As  prairie  roses  creep  and  fling 

Their  richest  bloom  upon  the  earth. 

OVERLOOKING  one  of  those  small  parks  or  squares  that  lie  in 
the  heart  of  our  city  like  tufts  of  wild  flowers  in  a  desert,  stands 
one  of  those  miniature  palaces,  too  small  for  the  very  wealthy, 
and  too  beautiful  in  its  appointments  for  any  idea  but  that  of 

rfect  taste,  which  wealth  does  not  always  give.  A  cottage 
house  it  was,  or  rather  an  exquisite  mockery  of  what  one  sees 
named  as  cottages  in  the  country.  The  front,  of  a  pale  stone 
color,  was  so  ornamented  and  netted  over  with  the  lace-work 
of  iron  balconies  and  window-gratings,  that  it  had  all  the  ele 
gance  of  a  city  mansion,  with  much  of  the  rustic  beauty  one  sees 
in  a  rural  dwelling. 

A  little  court,  full  of  flowers,  lay  in  front,  with  a  miniature 
fountain  throwing  up  a  slender  column  of  water  from  the  centre 
of  a  tiny  grass-plat,  that,  in  the  pure  dampness  always  raining 
over  it,  lay  like  a  mass  of  crushed  emeralds  hidden  among  the 
flowers.  The  netted  iron-work  that  hung  around  the  doors, 
the  windows,  and  fringed  the  eaves,  as  it  were,  with  a  valance 
of  massive  lace,  was  luxuriously  interwoven  with  creeping 
plants.  Prairie  .roses,  crimson  and  white,  clung  around  the 
lower  balconies.  Ipomas  wove  a  profusion  of  their  great  purple 
and  rosy  bells  around  the  upper  windows  ;  cypress  vines,  with 
their  small  crimson  bells  ;  petunias  of  every  tint ;  rich  passion 
flowers,  and  verbenas  with  their  leaves  hidden  in  the.  light  bal 
conies,  wove  and  twined  themselves  with  the  coarser  vines, 
blossoming  each  in  its  turn,  and  filling  the  leaves  with  their 
gorgeous  tints.  Crimson  and  fragrant  honeysuckles  twined  in 
massive  wreaths  up  to  the  very  roof,  where  they  grew  and  bios- 


FASH1C-N      AND      FAMINE.  HI 

Bomed  in  the  lattice-work,  now  in  masses,  now  spreading  out 
like  an  embroidery,  and  everywhere  loading  the  atmosphere 
with  fragrance. 

The  cool,  bell-like  dropping  of  the  fountain,  that  always  kept 
the  flowers  fresh  ;  the  fragrance  of  half  a  dozen  orange  trees, 
snowy  with  blossoms  and  golden  with  heavy  fruit ;  the  gleam 
of  white  lilies  ;  the  glow  of  roses,  and  the  graceful  sway  of  a 
slender  labarnum  tree,  all  crowded  into  one  little  nook  scarcely 
large  enough  for  the  pleasure-grounds  of  a  fairy,  were  enough 
to  draw  general  attention  to  the  house,  though  another  and 
still  more  beautiful  object  had  never  presented  itself  at  the 
window. 

On  -a  moonlight  evening,  especially  when  a  sort  of  pearly  veil 
fell  upon  the  little  flower  nook,  an  air  of  quiet  beauty  impossi 
ble  to  describe,  rested  around  this  dwelling — beauty  not  the  less 
striking  that  it  was  so  still,  so  lost  in  profound  repose,  that  the 
house  might  have  been  deemed  uninhabited  but  for  the  gleam 
of  light  that  occasionally  broke  through  the  vines  about  one  or 
another  of  the  windows.  Sometimes  it  might  be  seen  strug 
gling  through  the  roses  around  the  lower  balcony,  but  far 
oftener  it  came  in  faint  gleams  from  a  window  in  the  upper 
story,  and  at  such  times  the  shadow  of  a  person  stooping  over 
a  book,  or  lost  in  deep  thought,  might  be  seen  through  the 
muslin  curtains. 

No  sashes,  flung  open  in  the  carelessness  of  domestic  enjoy 
ment,  were  ever  seen  in  the  dwelling  ;  no  voices  of  happy  child 
hood  were  ever  heard  to  ring  through  those  clustering  vines. 
Sometimes  a  young  female  would  steal  timidly  out  upon  the 
balconies,  and  return  again,  like  a  bird  afraid .  to  be  detected 
beyond  the  door  of  its  cage.  Sometimes  an  old  lady  in  mourn 
ing  might  be  seen  passing  in  and  out,  as  if  occupied  with  some 
slight  household  responsibility.  This  was  all  the  neighborhood 
ever  knew  of  the  cottage  or  its  inmates.  The  face  of  the 
younger  female,  though  always  beautiful,  was  not  always  the 
same,  but  no  person  knew  when  one  disappeared  and  another 
took  her  place. 


112  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

The  cottage  had  been  built  by  a  private  gentleman,  and  its 
first  occupant  was  the  old  lady.  She  might  have  been  his 
mother,  his  tenant,  or  his  housekeeper,  no  one  could  decide  her 
exact  position.  He  seldom  visited  the  'house.  Sometimes 
during  months  together  he  never  crossed  the  threshold.  But 
the  old  lady  was  always  there,  scarcely  ever  without  a  young 
and  lovely  companion;  and,  what  seemed  most  singular,  year 
after  year  passed  and  her  mourning  garments  were  never 
changed. 

Servants,  the  universal  channel  through  which  domestic  gos 
sip  circulates  in  the  basement  strata  of  social  life,  were  never 
seen  in  the  cottage.  An  old  colored  woman  came  two  or  three 
times  a  week  and  performed  certain  household  duties ;  but  she 
spoke  only  in  a  foreign  language,  and  probably  had  been  selected 
for  that  very  reason.  Thus  all  the  usual  avenues  of  intelligence 
were  closed  around  the  cottage.  True,  a  colored  man  came 
occasionally  to  prune  and  trim  the  little  flower  nook,  but  he  was 
never  seen  to  enter  the  house,  and  appeared  to  be  profoundly 
ignorant  of  its  history  and  its  inmates.  Some  of  the  most 
curious  had  ventured  far  enough  into  the  fairy  garden  to  read 
the  name  on  a  silver  plate  within  the  latticed  entrance.  It  was 
a  single  name,  and  seemed  to  be  foreign ;  at  any  rate,  it  had 
no  familiar  sound  to  those  who  read  it,  and  whether  it  belonged 
to  the  owner  of  the  cottage  or  the  old  lady,  still  continued  a 
mystery. 

Thus  the  cottage  remained  a  tiny  palace,  more  isolated  amid 
the  surrounding  dwellings  than  it  could  have  been  if  buried  in 
the  green  depths  of  the  country.  But  at  the  season  when  our 
story  commences,  the  profound  quietude  of  the  place  was  broken 
by  the  appearance  of  a  new  inmate.  A  fair  young  girl  about 
this  time  was  often  noticed  early  in  the  morning,  and  sometimes 
after  dusk  hovering  about  the  little  fountain,  as  if  enticed  there 
by  the  scent  of  the  orange  trees;  still,  though  her  white  gar 
ments  were  often  seen  fluttering  amid  the  shrubbery,  which  she 
seemed  to  haunt  with  the  shy  timidity  of  a  wild  bird,  few  per 
sons  ever  obtained  a  distinct  view  of  her  features. 


FASHION  AND   FAMINE.         113 

On  the  night,  and  at  the  very  hour  when  Ada  Leicester  and 
Jacob  Strong  met  beneath  the  old  elm  tree  in  sight  of  the  farm 
house  which  had  once  sheltered  them,  two  men  gently  approached 
this  cottage  and  paused  before  the  gate.  This  was  nothing 
singular,  for  it  was  no  unusual  thing,  when  that  lovely  fountain 
was  tossing  its  cool  shower  of  water-drops  into  the  air,  and  the 
flowers  were  bathed  in  the  moonlight,  for  persons  to  pause  in 
their  evening  walk  and  wonder  at  the  gem-like  beauty  of  the 
place.  But  these  two  persons  seemed  about  to  enter  the  little 
gate.  One  held  the  latch  in  his  hand,  and  appeared  to  hesitate 
only  while  he  examined  the  windows  of  the  dwelling.  The  other 
younger  by  far  and  more  enthusiastic,  grasped  the  iron 
railing  with  one  hand,  while  he  leaned  over  and  inhaled  the 
rich  fragrance  of  the  flower  garden  with  intense  gratifica 
tion. 

"Come,"  said  Leicester,  gently  opening  the  gate,  "I  see  a 
light  in  the  lower  rooms — let  us  go  in!" 

"What,  here?  Is  it  here  you  are  taking  me?"  cried  the 
youth,  in  accents  of  joyful  surprise — "how  beautiful — how  very, 
very  beautiful.  It  must  be  some  queen  of  the  fairies  you  are 
leading  me  to!" 

"You  like  the  house  then?"  said  Leicester,  in  his  usual  calm 
voice,  gently  advancing  along  the  walk.  "It  does  look  well 
just  now,  with  the  moonlight  falling  through  the  leaves,  but  these 
things  become  tiresome  after  a  while!" 

"Tiresome!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  casting  his  glance  around. 
"Tiresome!" 

"I  much  doubt,"  added  Leicester,  turning  -as  he  spoke,  and 
gliding,  as  if  unconsciously,  along  the  white  gravel  walk  that 
curved  around  the  fountain — "I  much  doubt  if  any  thing  con~ 
tinues  to  give  entire  satisfaction,  even  the  efforts  of  our  own 
mind,  or  the  work  of  our  own  hands,  after  it  is  once  completed. 
It  is  the  progress,  the  love  of  change,  the  curiosity  to  see  how 
this  touch  will  affect  the  whole,  that  gives  zest  to  enjoyment  in 
such  things.  I  can  fancy  the  owner  of  this  faultless  little  place 
now  becoming  weary  of  its  prettiness." 


114  FASHION    AND    FAMINE. 

"Weary  of  a  place  like  this — why  the  angels  might  think 
themselves  at  home  in  it!" 

"They  would  find  out  their  mistake,  I  fancy!" 

As  Leicester  uttered  these  words  the  moonlight  fell  full  upon 
his  face,  and  the  worm-like  curl  of  his  lip  which  the  light 
revealed,  had  something  unpleasant  in  it.  The  youth  happened 
to  look  up  at  the  moment,  and  a  sharp  revulsion  came  over  his 
feelings.  For  the  moment  he  fell  into  thought,  and  when  he 
spoke,  the  change  in  his  spirit  was  very  evident. 

"I  can  imagine  nothing  that  is  not  pure  and  good,  almost  as 
the  angels  themselves,  living  here!"  he  said,  half  timidly,  as  if 
he  feared  the  scoff  that  might  follow  his  words. 

"We  shall  see,"  answered  Leicester,  breaking  a  cluster  of 
orange  flowers  from  one  of  the  plants.  He  was  about  to  fasten 
the  fragrant  sprig  in  his  button-hole,  but  some  after-thought 
came  over  him,  such  as  often  regulated  his  most  trivial  actions, 
and  he  gave  the  branch  to  his  companion. 

"  Put  it  in  your  bosom,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  jeering  good 
humor,  as  one  trifles  with  a  child:  "  who  knows  but  it  may  win 
your  first  conquest?" 

The  youth  took  the  blossoms,  but  held  them  carelessly  in 
his  hand.  There  was  something  in  Leicester's  tone  that 
wounded  his  self-love ;  and  without  reply  he  moved  from  the 
fountain.  They  ascended  to  the  richly  latticed  entrance,  and 
Leicester  touched  the  bell  knob. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  quiet,  pale  old  lady,  who  gravely 
bent  her  head  as  she  recognised  Leicester.  After  one  glance 
of  surprise  at  his  young  companion,  which  certainly  had  no 
pleasure  blended  with  it,  she  led  the  way  into  a  small  parlor. 

Nothing  could  be  more  exquisitely  chaste  than  that  little 
room.  The  ceilings  and  the  enamelled  walls  were  spotless  as 
crusted  snow,  and  like  snow  was  the  light  cornice  of  grape 
leaves  and  fruit,  that  scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  ceiling  around 
which  they  were  entwined.  No  glittering  chandelier,  no  gilded 
cornices  or  gorgeous  carpets  disturbed  the  pure  harmony  of  this 
little  room;  delicate  India  matting  covered  the  floor;  the  chairs, 

1 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  115 

divans  and  couches  were  of  pure  white  enamel.  Curtains  of 
soft,  delicate  lace,  embroidered,  as  it  were,  with  snow-flakes, 
draped  the  sashes.  Those  at  the  bay  window,  which  opened  on 
the  flower-garden,  were  held  apart  by  two  small  statues  of  Pa 
rian  marble  that  stood  guarding  the  tiny  alcove,  half  veiled  in 
clouds  of  transparent  lace. 

Upon  a  massive  table  of  pure  alabaster,  inlaid  with  softly 
clouded  agate,  stood  a  Grecian  vase,  in  which  a  lamp  was  burn 
ing,  and  through  its  sculpture  poured  a  subdued  light  that 
seemed  but  a  mor"  lustrous  kindling  of  the  moonbeams  that  lay 
around  the  dwelling. 

The  youth  had  not  expressed  himself  amiss.  It  did  seem  as  if 
an  angel  might  have  mistaken  this  dwelling,  so  chaste,  so  tran 
quilly  cool,  for  his  permanent  home.  The  clouds  of  Heaven  did 
not  seem  more  free  from  earthly  taint  than  everything  within  it. 
Robert  paused  at  the  threshold;  a  vague  feeling  of  self-distrust 
came  over  him.  It  seemed  as  if  his  presence  would  soil  the 
mysterious  purity  of  the  room.  The  old  lady,  with  her  grave 
face  and  black  garments,  was  so  at  variance  with  the  dwelling, 
that  the  very  sight  of  her  moving  so  noiselessly  across  the  room 
chilled  him  to  the  heart. 

Leicester  sat  down  on  a  divan  near  the  window. 

"Tell  Florence  I  am  here!"  he  said,  addressing  the  old 
lady. 

For  a  moment  the  lady  hesitated;  then,  without  having  spoken 
a  word,  she  went  out.  Directly  there  was  a  faint  rustling  sound 
on  the  stairs,  a  quick,  light  footstep  near  the  door,  and  with 
every  appearance  of  eager  haste  a  young  girl  entered  the  room. 
A  morning  dress  of  white  muslin,  edged  with  a  profusion  of 
delicate  lace,  clad  her  slender  form  from  head  to  foot;  a  tiny 
cameo  of  blood-red  coral  fastened  the  robe  at  her  throat,  and 
this  was  all  the  ornament  visible  upon  her  person. 

She  entered  the  room  in  breathless  haste,  her  dark  eyes  spark 
ling,  her  cheeks  warm  with  a  rich  crimson,  and  with  both  hands 
extended,  approached  Leicester.  Before  she  reached  the  divan 
the  consciousness  that  a  stranger  was  present  fell  upon  her.  She 


116  FASHION      AND      FA  MINK. 

paused,  her  hands  fell,  and  all  the  beautiful  gladness  faded  from 
her  countenance. 

"A*  young  friend  of  mine,"  said  Leicester,  with  an  indolent 
wave  of  the  hand  toward  Robert.  "  The  evening  was  so  fine, 
we  have  been  rambling  in  the  park,  and  being  near,  dropped  in 
to  rest  awhile." 

The  young  lady  turned  with  a  very  slight  inclination,  and 
Robert  saw  the  face  he  had  so  admired  in  Leicester's  chamber, 
the  beautiful,  living  original  of  a  picture  still  engraven  on  his 
heart.  The  surprise  was  overpowering.  He  could  not  speak  ; 
and  Leicester,  who  loved  to  study  the  human  heart  in  its  tu 
mults,  smiled  softly  as  he  marked  the  change  upon  his  features. 

As  if  overcome  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  the  young  lady 
sat  down  near  the  divan  which  Leicester  occupied.  The  color 
had  left  her  cheek  ;  and  Robert,  who  was  gazing  earnestly  upon 
her,  thought  that  he  could  see  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes. 

"It is  a  long  time  since  you  have  been  here,"  she  said,  in  n 
low  voice,  bending  with  a  timid  air  toward  Leicester.  "  I — 1 — 
that  is,  we  had  begun  to  think  you  had  forgotten  us." 

"No,  I  have  been  very  busy,  that  is  all !"  answered  Leicester, 
carelessly.  "  I  sent  once  or  twice  some  books  and  things — did 
you  get  them  ?" 

"  Yes;  thank  you  very  much — but  for  them  I  should  have 
been  more  sad  than,  than — " 

She  checked  herself,  in  obedience  to  the  quick  glance  that  he 
cast  upon  her;  but,  spite  of  the  effort,  a  sound  of  rising  tears 
was  in  her  voice;  the  poor  girl  seemed  completely  unnerved 
with  some  sudden  disappointment. 

"  And  your  lessons,  Florence,  how  do  you  get  along  with 
them  ?" 

"  I  cannot  study,"  answered  the  girl,  shaking  her  head  mourn 
fully.  "  Indeed  I  cannot,  I  am  so,  so " 

"  Homesick  !"  said  Leicester,  quietly  interrupting  her.  "  Is 
that  it  r 

"  Homesick  !"  repeated  the  girl,  with  a  faint  shudder.  "  No, 
I  shall  never  be  that  1" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  117 

"  Well — well,  you  must  learn  to  apply  yourself,"  rejoined 
Leicester,  with  an  affectation  of  paternal  interest ;  "we  must 
have  a  good  report  of  your  progress  to  transmit  when  your 
father  writes." 

Florence  turned  very  white,  and,  hastily  rising,  lifted  the  lace 
drapery,  and  concealing  herself  in  the  recess  behind,  seemed  to 
be  gazing  out  upon  the  flower-garden.  A  faint  sound  now  and 
then  broke  from  the  recess;  and  Robert,  who  keenly  watched 
every  movement,  fancied  that  she  must  be  weeping. 

Leicester  arose,  and  sauntering  to  the  window,  glided  behind 
the  lace.  A  few  smothered  words  were  uttered  in  what  Robert 
thought  to  be  a  tone  of  suppressed  reproof,  then  he  came  into 
the  room  again,  making  some  careless  observation  about  the 
beauty  of  the  night.  Florence  followed  directly,  and  took  her 
old  seat  with  a  drooping  and  downcast  air,  that  filled  the  youth 
with  vague  compassion. 

"  Now  that  we  are  upon  this  subject,"  said  Leicester,  quietly 
resuming  the  conversation,  "you  should,  above  all  things, 
attend  to  your  drawing,  my  dear  young  lady.  I  know  it  is 
difficult  to  obtain  really  competent  masters  ;  but  here  is  my 
young  friend,  who  has  practised  much,  and  has  decided  genius 
in  the  arts  ;  he  will  be  delighted  to  give  you  a  lesson  now  and 
then." 

Florence  lifted  her  eyes  suddenly^to  the  face  of  the  youth. 
She  saw  him  start  and  change  countenance,  as  if  from  some 
vivid  emotion.  A  faint  glow  tinged  her  own  cheek,  and,  as  it 
were,  obeying  the  glance  of  Leicester's  eye,  which  she  felt  with 
out  seeing,  she  murmured  some  'gentle  words  of  acknowledg 
ment. 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  said  the  poor  youth,  blushing,  and 
all  in  a  glow  of  joyous  embarrassment — "  that  is,  if  I  thought — 
if  I  dreamed  that  my  imperfect  knowledge — that — that  any 
little  talent  of  mine  could  be  of  service." 

"  Of  course  it  will!"  said  Leicester,  quietly  interrupting  him; 
''  do  you  not  see  that  Miss  Craft  is  delighted  with  the  arrange 
ment  ?  I  was  sure  that  it  would  give  her  pleasure  !" 


118  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Florence  turned  her  dark  eyes  on  the  speaker  with  a  look  of 
gratitude  that  might  have  warmed  a  heart  of  marble. 

"  Ah,  how  kind  you  are  to  think  of  me  thus!"  she  said,  in  a 
low  tone,  that,  sweet  as  it  was,  sent  a  painful  thrill  through  the 
listener.  "  I  was  afraid  that  you  had  forgotten  those  things 
that  I  desire  most." 

"  It  is  always  the  way  with  very  young  ladies;  they  are  sure 
to  think  a  guardian  too  exacting  or  too  negligent,"  said  Leices 
ter,  with  a  smile. 

Again  Florence  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face,  with  a  look  of 
vague  astonishment;  she  seemed  utterly  at  a  loss  to  compre 
hend  him,  and  though  a  faint  smile  fluttered  on  her  lip,  she 
seemed  ready  to  burst  into  tears. 

You ,  should  have  seen  Leicester's  face  as  he  watched  the 
mutations  of  that  beautiful  countenance.  It  was  like  that  of  an 
epicure  who  loves  to  shake  his  wine,  and  amuse  himself  with  its 
rich  sparkle,  long  after  his  appetite  is  satiated.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  were  striving  to  see  how  near  he  could  drive  that  young 
creature  to  a  passion  of  tears,  and  yet  forbid  them  flowing. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  turning  upon  her  one  of  his  most  brilliant 
smiles,  "  now  let  us  have  some  music.  You  must  not  send  us 
away  without  that,  pretty  lady;  run  and  get  your  guitar." 

"It  is  here,"  said  Florence,  starting  up  with  a  brightened 
look.  "  At  least,  I  think  so — was  it  not  in  this  room  I  played 
for  you  last  ?" 

"  And  have  you  not  used  the  poor  instrument  since  ?"  ques 
tioned  Leicester,  as  she  brought  a  richly  inlaid  guitar  from  the 
window  recess. 

"  I  had  no  spirits  for  music,"  she  answered  softly,  as  he  bent 
over  the  ottoman  on  which  she  seated  herself,  and  with  an  air 
of  graceful  gallantry,  threw  the  broad  ribbon  over  her  neck. 

"  But  you  have  the  spirits  now,"  he  whispered. 

A  glance  of  sudden  delight  and  a  vivid  blush  was  her  only 
reply,  unless  the  wild,  sweet  burst  of  music  that  rose  from  the 
strings  of  her  guitar  might  be  deemed  such. 

"What  will  you  have?"  she  said,  turning  her  radiant  face 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  119 

toward  him,  while  her  small  hand  glided  over  the  strings  after 
this  brilliant  prelude.  "  What  shall  it  be  ?" 

It  was  a  fiendish  pleasure,  that  of  torturing  a  young  heart  so 
full  of  deep  emotions  ;  but  the  pleasures  of  that  man  were  all 
fiendish;  the  cold  refinement  of  his  intellect  mad£  him  cruel. 
With  his  mind  he  tortured  the  soul  over  which  that  mind  had 
gained  ascendancy.  He  named  the  song  very  gently  which 
that  poor  young  creature  was  to  sing.  It 'was  her  father's 
favorite  air.  The  last  time  she  had  played  it — oh!  with  what 
a  pang  she  remembered  that  time.  It  sent  the  color  from  her 
lips.  Her  hand  seemed  turning  to  marble  on  the  strings. 

This  was  what  Leicester  expected.  He  loved  to  see  the  hot, 
passionate  flashes  of  a  heart  all  his  own  thus  frozen  by  a  word 
from  his  lip  or  a  glance  of  his  eye.  A  moment  before  s.he  had 
been  radiant  with  happiness — now  she  sat  before  him  drooping 
and  pale  as  a  broken  lily.  That  was  enough.  He  would  send 
the  fire  to  her  cheek  again. 

"  No,  let  me  think,  there  was  a  pretty  little  air  you  sometimes 
gave  us  on  shipboard — do  you  remember  I  wrote  some  lines  for 
it  !  Let  me  try  and  catch  the  air.7' 

He  began  to  hum  over  a  note  or  two,  as  if  trying  to  catch  an 
almost  forgotten  air,  regarding  her  all  the  while  through  his 
half-closed  eyes.  But  even  the  mention  of  that  song  did  not 
quite  arouse  her  ;  it  is  easier  to  give  pain  than  pleasure  ;  easier 
to  dash  the  cup  of  joy  from  a  trembling  hand  than  to  fill  it  af 
terward.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  sat  with  her  eyes  bent  upon 
the  floor.  That  bad  man  was  half  offended.  He  looked  upon 
her  continued  depression  as  an  evidence  of  his  waning  power, 
and  was  not  content  unless  the  heart-strings  of  his  victim  an 
swered  to  every  glowing  or  icy  touch  of  his  own  evil  spirit. 

"Ah,  you  have  forgotten  the  air — I  expected  it,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  of  thrilling  reproach,  but  so  subdued  that  it  only  reached 
the  ear  for  which  it  was  intended.  He  had  stricken  that  young 
heart  cruelly.  Even  this  but  partially  aroused  her.  His 
vicious  pride  was  pained.  He  leaned  back  on  the  divan,  and 
the  words  of  a  song,  sparkling,  passionate  and  tender  with  love 


120  FASHION      AND.    FA  MINE. 

broke  from  his  lips.  His  voice  was  superb  ;  his  features  lighted 
up  ;  his  dark  eyes  flashed  like  diamonds  beneath  the  half-closed 
lashes. 

You  should  have  seen  Florence  Leicester  then.  That  voice 
flowed  through  her  chilled  heart  like  dew  upon  a  perishing  lily- 
like  sunshine  upon  a  rose  that  the  storm  has  shaken  ;  her  droop 
ing  form  became  more  erect ;  her  hand  began  to  tremble;  her  pale 
lips  were  softly  parted,  and  grew  red  as  if  the  warm  breath, 
flashing  through,  kindled  a  richer  glow  with  each  short,  eager 
gasp.  Deeper  and  deeper  those  mellow  notes  penetrated  her 
soul  ;  for  the  time,  her  very  being  was  given  up  to  the  wild  de 
lusion  that  had  perverted  it. 

All  the  time  that  his  spirit  seemed  pouring  forth  its  tender 
memories,  he  was  watching  the  effect,  coldy  as  the  physician 
counts  the  pulse  of  his  patient.  She  was  very  beautiful  as  the 
bloom  came  softly  back  to  her  cheek  like  a  smile  growing  vivid 
there  ;  it  was  like  watching  a  flower  blossom,  or  the  escape  of 
sunbeams  from  underneath  a  summer  cloud.  He  loved  a 
study  like  this;  it  gratified  his  morbid  taste;  it  gave  him 
mental  excitement,  and  yielded  a  keen  relish  to  his  inordinate 
vanity. 

A  doubt  that  his  hitherto  invincible  powers  of  attraction 
might  fall  away  with  the  approach  of  age,  had  began  to  haunt 
him  about  this  time,  and  the  thought  stimulated  his  hungry  self- 
love  into  more  intense  action.  He  was  testing  his  own  powers 
in  the  beautiful  agitation  of  that  young  creature.  The  rich  vi 
brations  of  his  voice  were  still  trembling  upon  the  air,  when  the 
old  lady  returned  to  the  room.  Her  manner  was  still  quiet,  but 
her  large  and  very  black  eyes  were  brighter  than  they  had  been, 
and  her  tread,  though  still,  was  more  firm  as  she  crossed  the 
room.  She  advanced  directly  toward  Leicester,  whose  back 
was  partly  turned  toward  her,  and  touched  his  shoulder. 

"  William  !" 

Leicester  started  from  his  half  reclining  position  and  sat 
upright  ;  his  song  was  hushed  the  instant  that  low,  but  ringing 
voice  fell  upon  his  ear,  and,  with  some  slight  display  of  embar- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  121 

rassment,  he  looked  in  the  old  lady's  face.     Its  profound  gravity 
seemed  to  chill  even  his  self-possession, 

"  Not  here,  William;  you  know  I  do  not  like  music  !"  added 
the  old  lady,  in  her  firm,  gentle  tones. 

Florence  leaned  back  in  her  seat  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  had  been  disturbed  in  the  sweet  bewilderment 
of  some  dream  ;  Robert  was  gazing  fixedly  upon  her,  wonder 
ing  at  all  he  saw.  To  him  she  appeared  like  the  birds  he  had 
read  of  fluttering  around  the  jaws  of  a  serpent ;  spite  of  himself, 
this  delusion  would  come  upon  him.  Yet  he  had  boundless  faith  in 
the  honor  and  goodness  of  the  man  on  whom  her  eyes  were 
fixed,  while  she  was  a  profound  stranger. 

"  I  did  not  know — indeed,  madam,  I  thought  you  liked  mu 
sic  I"  said  Florence,  casting  the  ribbon  from  her  neck,  and 
addressing  the  old  lady. 

"  Only  when  we  are  alone;  then  I  love  to  hear  you  both  sing 
and  play,  dear  child  ;  but  William — Mr.  Leicester's  voice  ;  it 
is  that  I  do  not  like." 

"  Not  like  his  voice  ?"  exclaimed  Florence,  turning  her  eyes 
upon  him  with  a  look  that  made  Robert  press  his  lips  hard  to 
gether — "  not  like  that — oh,  madam  ?" 

"  Well — well,  madam,  you  shall  not  be  annoyed  by  it  again," 
said  Leicester,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  their  shoulders,  "I  forgot 
myself,  that  is  all !" 

The  old  lady  bent  her  head  and  sat  down,  but  her  coming 
cast  a  restraint  upon  the  little  group,  and  though  she  attempted 
to  open  a  conversation  with  Robert,  he  was  too  much  pre-occu- 
pied  for  anything  more  than  a  few  vague  replies  that  were  sadly 
out  of  place. 

From  the  moment  of  the  old  lady's  entrance,  Leicester 
changed  his  whole  demeanor.  He  joined  in  the  efforts  she  was 
making  to  draw  the  youth  out,  and  that  with  a  degree  of  quiet 
gravity  that  seemed  by  its  respect  to  win  upon  her  favor.  He 
took  no  further  notice  of  Florence,  and  seemed  unconscious 
that  she  was  sitting  near  watching  this  change  with  anxious 
eyes  and  drooping  spirits. 

6 


122  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  I  have,"  said  Leicester,  after  a  few  common-place  remarks, 
'  I  have  just  been  proposing  that  the  young  gentleman  should 
give  our  pretty  guest  here  some  drawing  lessons  during  the  sea 
son,  always  under  your  sanction,  madam,  of  course." 

The  old  lady  cast  a  more  searching  glance  at  the  youth  than 
she  had  hitherto  bestowed  on  him,  then  bending  her  eyes  upon 
the  floor,  she  seemed  to  ponder  over  the  proposal  that  had  been 
made.  After  this  her  keen  glance  was  directed  to  Leicester; 
then  she  seemed  once  more  lost  in  thought. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  at  length,  looking  full  and  hard  at  Leices 
ter,  "  it  will  occupy  her — it  will  be  a  benefit,  perhaps  to 
them  both." 

Leicester  simply  bent  his  head.  He  conquered  even  the 
expression  of  his  face,  that  the  keen  eyes  bent  upon  him 
might  not  detect  the  hidden  reason  which  urged  this  proposal. 
That  some  motive  of  self  interest  was  there,  the  old  lady  well 
knew,  but  she  resolved  to  watch  closer.  His  projects  were  not 
to  be  fathomed  in  a  moment.  She  did  not  leave  the  room 
again,  and  her  presence  threw  a  constraint  upon  the  group, 
which  prompted  the  visitors  to  depart. 

Florence  rose  as  they  prepared  to  go  out.  Her  dark  eyes 
were  beseechingly  turned  upon  Leicester.  With  a  mute  glance 
she  sought  to  keep  him  a  few  minutes  longer,  though  she  had 
no  courage  to  utter  the  wish.  He  took  her  soft,  little  hand 
gently  in  his,  held  it  a  moment,  and  went  away,  followed  by 
Robert  and  the  old  lady,  who  accompanied  her  guests  to  the 
door. 

Florence  had  crept  into  the  window  recess,  and  while  her 
panting  breath  clouded  the  glass,  gazed  wistfully  at  these  two 
dark  shadows  as  they  glided  through  the  flower-garden.  She 
was  keenly  disappointed  ;  his  visit,  the  one  g^eat  joy  for  which 
she  had  so  waited  and  watched,  was  over  ;  and  how  had  it  pass 
ed  ?  With  the  keen,  cold  eyes  of  that  old  lady  upon  them — be 
neath  the  curious  scrutiny  of  a  stranger.  Tears  of  vexation 
gathered  in  her  eyes  ;  she  heard  the  old  lady  return,  and  tried 
to  crush  them  back  with  a  pressure  of  the  silken  lashes,  shrink 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  123 

ing  still  behind  the  cloud  of  lace  that  her  discomposure  might 
not  be  observed. 

The  old  lady  entered  the  room,  and,  believing  it  empty,  sat 
down  in  a  large  easy-chair.  She  sighed  profoundly,  shading 
her  face  with  one  of  the  thin  delicate  hands,  that  still  bore  an 
impress  of  great  beauty.  Her  eyes  were  thus  shrouded,  and, 
though  she  did  not  appear  to  be  weeping,  one  deep  sigh  after 
another  heaved  the  black  neckerchief  folded  over  her  bosom. 
As  these  sighs  abated,  Florence  saw  that  the  old  lady  was  sink 
ing  into  a  reverie  so  deep,  that  she  fancied  it  possible  to  steal 
away,  unnoticed,  to  her  room.  So,  timidly  creeping  out  from 
the  drapery,  that  in  its  cloud-like  softness  fell  back  without  a 
rustle,  she  moved  toward  the  door.  The  old  lady  looked  sud 
denly  up,  and  the  startled  girl  could  see  that  the  usual  serious 
composure  of  her  countenance  was  greatly  disturbed. 

"  Is  it  you,  my  dear  ?"  she  said,  in  her  usual  kindly  tones, 
"  I  thought  you  had  gone  up  stairs." 

Florence  was  startled  by  the  suddenness  of  this  address,  and 
turned  back,  for  there  was  something  in  the  old  lady's  look  that 
seemed  to  desire  her  stay. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  was  looking  out  upon — upon  the  night. 
It  is  very  lovely!" 

"  Paradise  was  more  lovely,  and  yet  serpents  crept  among  the 
flowers,  even  there!"  said  the  old  lady,  thoughtfully. 

A  vivid  blush  came  into  Florence's  pale  cheek. 

"I — I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  said,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"No,  I  think  not — I  hope  not,"  answered  the  lady,  bending 
her  eyes  compassionately  on  the  young  girl,  "come  here,  and  sit 
by  me." 

Florence  sat  down  upon  the  light  ottoman  which  the  old  lady 
drew  near  her  chair.  The  blushes,  a  moment  before  warm  upon 
her  cheeks,  had  burned  themselves  out.  She  felt  herself  grow 
ing  calm  and  sad  under  the  influence  of  those  serious,  but  kind 
eyes. 

"You  love  Mr.  Leicester!"  This  was  uttered  quietly,  and 
rather  as  an  assertion,  than  from  any  desire  for  a  reply.  As  she 


1 24  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

Bpoke,  the  old  lady  pressed  her  hand  upon  the  coil  of  raven 
hair  that  bound  that  graceful  head;  the  motion  was  almost  a  ca 
ress,  and  it  went  to  the  young  creature's  heart.  "Has  he  ever 
said  that  he  loved  you  ?" 

"Loved  me,  oh  yes  I  a  thousand  times,"  cried  the  young  crca, 
ture,  her  eyes  and  her  cheek  kindling  again,  "  else  how  could 
you  know — how  could  any  one  guess  how  very,  very  much  I 
think  of  him?" 

"And  how  do  you  expect  this  to  end?"  questioned  the  old 
lady,  while  a  deeper  shade  settled  on  her  pale  brow. 

"End?"  repeated  Florence,  and  her  face  was  bathed  with 
blushes  to  the  very  temples;  "I  have  never  really  thought  of 
that — he  loves  me!" 

"  Have  you  never  doubted  that  ?"  questioned  the  old  lady, 
with  a  faint  wave  of  the  head. 

"What,  his  love?  I — I — how  could  any  one  possibly 
doubt  ?" 

"  And  yet  to-night — this  very  evening  ?" 

"No — no,  it  was  only  disappointment — regret,  the — the 
flurry  of  his  sudden  visit — not  doubt — oh,  not  doubt  of  his 
love!" 

"Has  this  man — has  Leicester  ever  spoken  to  you  of  mar 
riage  ?  Have  his  professions  of  love  ever  taken  this  form  ?"  per 
sisted  the  old  lady,  becoming  more  and  more  earnest. 

"  Of  marriage  ?  yes — no — not  in  words." 

"Not  in  words  then?" 

"No,  I  never  thought  of  that  before — but  what  then  ?" 

"Then,"  said  the  old  lady,  impressively — "then  he  is  one 
shade  less  a  villain  than  I  had  feared  1" 

"Madam!"  exclaimed  the  young  girl,  all  pallid  and  gasping 
with  anger  and  affright. 

"My  child,"  said  the  old  lady,  taking  both  those  small,  trem 
bling  hands  in  hers,  "William  Leicester  will  never  marry  you, 
nor  any  one." 

"  How  do  you  know,  madam  ?  how  can  you  know  ?  Who  are 
you  that  tells  me  this  with  so  much  authority  ?" 


FASHION      AND      F  A  M 

"  I  am  his  mother,  poor  child.    God  help  me,  I 

The  young  girl  sat  gazing  up  into  that  aged  face,  so  pale,  so 
still,  that  her  very  quietude  was  more  painful  than  a  burst  of 
passion  could  have  been. 

"  His  mother  !"  broke  from  her  parted  lips.  "  It  is  his 
mother  who  calls  him  a  villain  !" 

"  Even  so,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  mournful  intensity. 
"  Look  up,  girl,  and  see  what  it  costs  a  mother  to  say  these 
things  of  an  only  son  !" 

Florence  did  look  up,  and  when  she  saw  the  anguish  upon 
that  face  usually  so  calm,  her  heart  filled  with  tender  pity,  not 
withstanding  the  tumult  already  there,  and  taking  the  old  lady's 
hands  in  hers,  she  bent  down  and  kissed  them. 

"  If  you  are  indeed  his  mother,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  fond 
anguish,  "  to-morrow  you  will  unsay  these  bitter  words — you 
are  only  angry  with  him  now — something  has  gone  wrong. 
You  will  not  repeat  such  things  of  him  to-morrow — for  oh,  they 
have  made  me  wretched." 

"I  am  cruel  only  that  I  may  be  kind  !"  said  the  old  lady  with 
mournful  earnestness.  *'  And  now,  dear  child,  let  us  talk  no 
more,  you  are  grieved,  and  I  suffer 'more  than  you  think." 

With  these  words,  the  old  lady  arose  and  led  her  guest  from 
the  room. 


1  2f)  .         FASHION      AND      FAMINE 


CHAPTER  IX. 


MRS.     GRAY'S     THANKSGIVING     DINNER, 

Oh,  I  love  an  old-fashioned  thanksgiving, 
When  the  crops  are  all  safe  in  the  barn  ; 

When  the  chickens  are  plump  with  good  living, 
And  the  wool  is  all  spun  into  yarn. 

It  is  pleasant  to  draw  round  the  table, 

When  uncles  and  cousins  are  there, 
And  grandpa,  who  scarcely  is  able, 

Sits  down  in  his  old  oaken  chair  ! 

It  is  pleasant  to  wait  for  the  blessing, 
With  a  heart  free  from  malice  and  strife, 

While  a  turkey,  that's  portly  with  dressing, 
Lies,  meekly  awaiting  the  knife. 


AMID  all  the  varieties  of  architecture — Grecian,  Gothic, 
Swiss,  Chinese,  and  even  Egyptian,  to  be  met  with  on  Long 
Island,  there  yet  may  be  found  some  genuine  old  farms,  with 
barns  instead  of  carriage-houses,  and  cow  sheds  in  the  place  of 
pony  stables.  To  these  old  houses  are  still  attached  generous 
gardens,  hedged  in  with  picket  fences,  and  teeming  with  vege 
tables,  and  front  yards  full  of  old-fashioned  shrubbery,  with 
thick  grass  half  a  century  old  mossing  them  over.  These  things, 
primitive,  and  full  of  the  olden  times,  are  not  yet  crowded  out 
of  sight  by  sloping  lawns,  gravel  walks,  and  newly  acclimated 
flowers  ;  and  if  they  do  not  so  vividly  appeal  to  the  taste, 
those,  who  have  hearts,  sometimes  find  them  softened  by  these 
relicts  of  the  past,  to  warmer  and  sweeter  feelings  than  mere 
fancy  ever  aroused. 

One  of  these  old  houses,  a  low  roofed,  unpretending  dwelling, 
exhibiting  unmistakable  evidence  of  what  had  once  been  white 
paint  on  the  edges  of  its  clap-boards,  and  crowned  by  a  huge 
stone  chimney,  whose  generous  throat  seemed  half  choked  up 
with  swallows'  nests,  belonged  to  a  character  in  our  story  which 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  127 

the  reader  cannot  have  forgotten  without  breaking  the  author's 
heart. 

It  was  autumn — but  a  generous,  balmy  autumn,  that  seemed 
to  cajole  and  flatter  the  summer  into  keeping  it  company  close 
up  to  Christinas.  True,  the  gorgeous  tints  of  a  late  Indian 
summer  lay  richly  among  the  trees,  but  some  patches  of  bright 
green  were  still  left,  defying  the  season,  and  putting  aside,  from 
day  to  day,  the  red  and  golden  veil  which  the  frost  was  con 
stantly  endeavoring  to  cast  over  them. 

Iii  front  of  the  old  house  stood  two  maples — noble  trees,  such 
as  have  had  no  time  to  root  themselves  around  your  modern 
cottages.     These  maples,  symmetrical  as  a  pair  of  huge  pine 
cones,  rose  against  the  house  a  perfect  cloud  of  gorgeous  foliage. 
One  was  red  as  blood,  and  with  a  dash  of  the  most  vivid  green 
still  keeping  its  hold  down  the  centre  of  each  leaf — the  other 
golden  all  over,  as  if  its  roots  were  nourished  in  the  metallic   ; 
soil  of  California,  and  its  leaves  dusted  by  the  winds  that  drift  ;. 
up  gold  in  the  valley  of  Sacramento.  These  superb  trees  blended  1 
and  wove  their  ripe  leaves  together,  now  throwing  out  a  wave 
of  red,  now  a  mass  of  gold,  and  here  a  tinge  of  green  in  splen 
did  confusion. 

AH  around,  under  these  maples,  the  grass  was  littered  with 
a  fantastic  carpet  of  leaves,  showered  down  from  their  branches. 
They  hung  around  the  huge  old  lilac  bushes.  They  fluttered 
down  to  the  rose  thickets,  and  lay  in  patches  of  torn  crimson 
and  crumpled  gold  among  the  house-leeks  and  mosses  on  the 
roof. 

In  and  out,  through  this  shower  of  ripe  leaves,  fluttered  the 
swallows.     In  and  out  along  the  heavy  branches,  darted  a  pair  of 
red  squirrels,  who  owned  a  nest  in  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
stately  trees.     In  and  out,  through  the  long,  low  kitchen,  the 
paVlor,  the  pantries,  and  the  milk-room,  went  and  came  our  old 
friend,  Mrs.  Gray,  the  comely  huckster-woman  of  Fulton  mar-  \ 
ket.     That  house  was  hers.     That  great  square  garden  at  the  | 
Dack  door  was  hers.     How  comfortable  and  harvest-like  it  lay, 
sloping  down  toward  the  south,  divided  into  sections,  crowded 


128          FASHION   AND   FAMINE. 

with  parsnips,  beets,  onions,  potatoes,  raspberry  thickets,  and 
strawberry  patches  ;  in  short,  running  over  with  a  stock  in,  trade 
that  had  furnished  her  market  stall  during  the  year. 

The  season  was  late.  The  frost  had  been  there  nippingy 
biting  and  pinching  up  the  noble  growth  of  vegetables  that  was 
to  supply  Mrs.  Gray's  stall  in  the  winter  months.  Half  the 
great  white  onions  lay  above  ground,  with  their  silvery  coats 
exposed.  The  beet  beds  were  of  a  deep  blackish  crimson  ;  and 
the  cucumber  vines  had  yielded  up  their  last  delicate  gherkins. 
All  her  neighbors  had  gathered  in  their  crops  days  ago,  but  the 
good  old  lady  only  laughed  and  chuckled  over  the  example  thus 
offered  for  her  imitation.  New  England  bom  and  accustomed 
to  the  sharp  east  winds  of  Maine,  she  cared  nothing  for  the 
petty  frosts  that  only  made  the  leaves  of  her  beet  and  parsnip 
beds  gorgeous,  while  their  precious  bulbs  lay  safely  bedded  in 
the  soil.  No  matter  what  others  did,  she  never  gathered  her 
garden  crop  till  Thanksgiving.  That  was  her  harvest  time,  her 
great  yearly  jubilee — the  season  when  her  accounts  were  reck 
oned  up — when  her  barns  and  cellars  were  running  over  with 
the  wealth  of  her  little  farm. 

Christmas,  New  Year,  the  Fourth  of  July,  in  short,  all  the 
holidays  of  the  year  were  crowded  into  one  with  Mrs.  Gray. 
During  the  whole  twelve  months,  she  commemorated  Thanks 
giving  only.  The  reader  must  not,  for  a  moment,  suppose  that 
the  Thanksgiving  Mrs.  Gray  loved  to  honor,  was  the  miserable 
counterfeit  of  a  holiday  proclaimed  by  the  governor  of  New 
York.  No  !  Mrs.  Gray  scorned  this  poor  attempt  at  imita 
tion.  It  made  her  double  chin  quiver  only  to  think  of  it.  If 
ever  a  look  of  contempt  crept  into  those  benevolent  eyes,  it  was 
when  people  would  try  to  convince  her  that  any  governor  out  of 
New  England,  could  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  regular  Down 
East  Thanksgiving  ;  or,  that  any  woman,  south  of  old  Connecti 
cut,  could  be  educated  into  the  culinary  mysteries  of  a  mince 
pie.  Her  faith  was  boundless,  her  benevolence  great,  but  in 
thes-e  things  Mrs.  Gray  could  not  force  herself  to  believe. 

You  should  have  seen  the  old  ludy  as  Thanksgiving  week 


FASHION* AND      FAMINE.  -129 

drew  near — not  the  New  York  one,  but  that  solemnly  pro 
claimed  by  the  governor  of  Maine.  Mrs.  Gray  heeded  no  other. 
That  week  the  woman  of  a  neighboring  stall  took  charge  of 
Mrs.  Gray's  business.  The  customers  were  served  by  a  strange 
hand  ;  the  brightness  of  her  comely  face  was  confined  to  her 
own  roof  tree.  She  gave  thanks  to  God  for  the  bounties  of 
the  earth,  heartily,  earnestly  ;  but  it  was  her  pleasure  to  render 
these  thanks  after  the  fashion  of  her  ancestors. 

You  should  have  seen  her  then,  surrounded  by  raisins,  black 
currants,  pumpkin  sauce,  peeled  apples,  sugar  boxes,  and  plates 
of  golden  butter,  her  plump  hand  pearly  with  flour  dust,  the 
whole  kitchen  redolent  with  ginger,  allspice,  and  cloves!  You 
should  have  seen  her  grating  orange  peel  and  nutmegs,  the 
border  of  her  snow-white  cap  rising  and  falling  to  the  motion 
of  her  hands,  and  the  soft  gray  hair  underneath,  tucked  hur 
riedly  back  of  the  ear  on  one  side,  where  it  had  threatened  to 
be  in  the  way. 

You  should  have  seen  her  in  that  large,  splint-bottomed 
rocking-chair,  with  a  wooden  bowl  in  her  capacious  lap,  and  a 
sharp  chopping-knife  in  her  right  hand  ;  with  what  a  soft,  easy 
motion  the  chopping-knife  fell !  with  what  a  quiet  and  smiling 
air  the  dear  old  lady  would  take  up  a  quantity  of  the  powdered 
beef  on  the  flat  of  her  knife,  and  observe,  as  it  showered  softly 
down  to  the  tray  again,  that  "  meat  chopped  too  fine  for  mince 
pies  was  sure  poison."  Then  the  laugh — the  quiet,  mellow 
chuckle  with  which  she  regarded  the  astonished  look  of  the 
Irish  girl,  who  could  not  understand  the  mystery  of  this  ancient 
saying. 

Yes,  you  should  have  seen  Mrs.  Gray  at  this  very  time,  in 
order  to  appreciate  fully  the  perfections  of  an  old-fashioned 
New  England  housewife.  They  are  departing  from  the  land. 
Railroads  and  steamboats  are  sweeping  them  away.  In  a  little 
time,  providing  our  humble  tale  is  not  first  sent  to  oblivion, 
this  very  description  will  have  the  dignity  of  an  antique  sub 
ject.  Women  who  cook  their  own  dinners  and  take  care  of  the 
work  hands  are  getting  to  be  legendary  even  now. 

6* 


130  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

The  day  came  at  last,  bland  as  the  smile  of  a  warm  heart,  a 
breath  of  summer  seemed  whispering  with  the  over-ripe  leaves. 
The  sunshine  was  of  that  warm,  golden  yellow  which  belongs  to 
the  autumn.  A  few  hardy  flowers  glowed  in  the  front  yard, 
richly  tinted  dahlias,  marigolds,  chrysanthemums,  and  China- 
asters,  with  the  most  velvety  amaranths,  still  kept  their  bloom,  for 
those  huge  old  maples  sheltered  them  like  a  tent,  and  flowers 
always  blossomed  later  in  that  house  than  elsewhere.  No 
wonder !  Inside  and  out,  all  was  pleasant  and  genial.  The 
fall  flowers  seemed  to  thrive  upon  Mrs.  Gray's  smiles.  Her 
rosy  countenance,  as  she  overlooked  them,  seemed  to  warm  up 
their  leaves  like  a  sunbeam.  Everything  grew  and  brightened 
about  her.  Everything  combined  to  make  this  particular 
Thanksgiving  one  to  be  remembered. 

Now,  all  was  in  fine  progress,  nothing  had  gone  wrong,  not 
even  the  awkward  Irish  girl,  for  she  had  only  to  see  that  the  po 
tatoes  were  in  readiness,  and  for  that  department  she  was 
qualified  by  birth. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  done  wonders  that  morning.  The  dinner  was 
in  a  most  hopeful  state  of  preparation.  The  great  red  crested, 
imperious  looking  turkey,  that  had  strutted  away  his  brief  life 
in  the  barn-yard,  was  now  snugly  bestowed  in  the  oven — Mrs. 
Gray  had  not  yet  degenerated  down  to  a  cooking-stove — his 
heavy  coat  of  feathers  was  scattered  to  the  wind.  His  head, 
that  arrogant,  crimson  head,  that  had  so  often  awed  the  whole 
poultry  yard,  lay  all  unheeded  in  the  dust,  close  by  the  horse 
block.  There  he  sat,  the  poor  denuded  monarch — turned  up  in 
a  dripping  pan,  simmering  himself  brown  in  the  kitchen  oven. 
Never,  in  all  his  pomp,  had  that  bosom  been  so  warmed  and  dis 
tended — yet  the  huge  turkey  hkd  been  a  sad  gourmand  in  his 
time.  A  rich  thymy  odor  broke  through  every  porer  of  his 
body  ;  drops  of  lucious  gravy  dripped  down  his  sides,  filling  the 
oven  with  an  unctuous  stream  that  penetrated  a  crevice  in  the 
door,  and  made  the  poor  Irish  girl  cross  herself  devoutly.  She 
felt  her  spirit  so  yearning  after  the  good  things  of  earth,  and 
never  having  seen  Thanksgiving  set  down  in  the  calendar,  was 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  131 

shy  of  surrendering  her  heart  to  a  holiday  that  had  no  saint  to 
patronize  it, 

No  wonder  !  the  odor  that  stole  so  insidiously  toner  nostrils 
was  appetising,  for  the  turkey  had  plenty  of  companionship  in 
the  oven.  A  noble  chicken-pie  flanked  his  dripping  pan  on  the 
right  ;  a  delicate  sucking  pig  was  drawn  up  to  the  left  wing; 
iu  the  rear  towered  a  mountain  of  roast  beef,  while  the  mouth  of 
the  oven  was  choked  up  with  a  generous  Indian  pudding.  It 
was  an  ovenful  worthy  of  New  England,  worthy  of  the  day. 

The  hours  came  creeping  on  when  guests  might  be  expected. 
Mrs.  Gray,  who  had  been  invisible  a  short  time  after  filling  the 
oven,  appeared  in  the  little  parlor  perfectly  redolent  with  good 
humor,  and  a  fresh  toilet.  A  cap  of  the  most  delicate  material, 
trimmed  with  satin  ribbons,  cast  a  transparent  brightness  over 
her  bland  and  pleasant  features.  A  dress  of  black  silk,  heavy 
and  ample  in  the  skirt,  rustled  round  her  portly  figure  as  she 
walked.  Folds  of  the  finest  muslin  lay  upon  her  bosom,  in  chaste 
contrast  with  the  black  dress,  and  just  revealing  a  string  of 
gold  beads  which  had  reposed  for  years  beneath  the  caressing 
protection  of  her  double  chin. 

Mrs.  Gray,  was  ready  for  company,  and  tried  her  best  to  re 
main  with  proper  dignity  in  the  great  rocking  chair,  that  she 
had  drawn  to  a  window  commanding  a  long  stretch  of  the 
road  ;  but  every  few  moments  she  would  start  up,  bustle  across 
the  room,  and  charge  Kitty,  the  Irish  girl,  to  be  careful  and  j 
watch  the  oven,  to  keep  a'sharp  eye  on  the  sauce-pans  in  the 
fire-place,  and,  above  all,  to  have  the  mince  pies  within  range  of 
the  fire,  that  they  might  receive  a  gradual  and  gentle  warmth 
by  the  time  they  were  wanted.  Then  she  would  return  to  the 
room,  arrange  the  branches  of  asparagus  that  hung  laden  with 
red  berries  over  the  looking  glass,  or  dust  the  spotless  table  with 
her  handkerchief,  just  to  keep  herself  busy,  as  she  said. 

At  last  she  heard  the  distant  sound  of  a  wagon,  turning  down 
the  cross  road  toward  the  house.  She  knew  the  tramp  of  her  own 
market  horse  even  at  that  distance,  and  seated  herself  by  the  win 
dow  ready  to  receive  her  expected  guests  with  becoming  dignity. 


1 32  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

The  IM^ne-horse  wagon  came  down  the  road  with  a  sort 
of  dasi,  quite  honorable  to  the  occasion.  Mrs.  Gray's  hired 
man  was  T^^nning  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  a  holiday;  and 
the  old  horse  himself  made  every  thing  rattle  again,  he  was  so 
eager  to  reach  home,  the  moment  it  hove  in  sight. 

The  wagon  drew  up  by  the  door  yard  gate  with  a  flourish 
worthy  of  the  Third  avenue.  The  hired  man  sprang  out,  and 
with  some  show  of  awkward  gallantry,  lifted  a  young  girl  in  a 
pretty  pink  calico  and  a  cottage  bonnet,  down  from  the  front 
seat.  Mrs.  Gray  could  maintain  her  position  no  longer;  for  the 
young  girl  glanced  that  way  with  a  look  so  eloquent,  a  smile  so 
bright,  that  it  warmed  the  dear  old  lady's  heart  like  a  flash  of 
fire  in  the  winter  time.  She  started  up,  hastily  shook  loose  the 
folds  of  her  dress,  and  went  out,  rustling  all  the  way  like  a  tree 
in  autumn.  . 

"You  are  welcome,  dear,  welcome  as  green  peas  in  June,  or 
radishes  in  March,"  she  cried,  seizing  the  little  hand  held  to 
ward  her,  and  kissing  the  heavenly  young  face. 

The  girl  turned  with  a  bright  look,  and  making  a  graceful 
little  wave  of  the  hand  toward  an  aged  man  who  was  tenderly 
helping  a  female  from  the  wagon,  seemed  about  to  speak. 

"I  understand,  dear,  I  know  all  about  it!  the  good  old  peo 
ple — grandpa  and  grandma,  of  course.  How  could  I  help 
knowing  them  ?"  Mrs.  Gray  went  up  to  the  old  people  as  she 
spoke,  with  a  bland  welcome  in  every  feature  of  her  face. 

"Know  them,  of  course  I  do!"  she  said,  enfolding  the  old 
gentleman's  hand  with  her  plump  fingers.  "I — I — gracious 
goodness,  now,  it  really  does  seem  as  if  I  had  seen  that  face 
somewhere!"  she  added,  hesitating,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed 
doubtirigly  on  the  stranger,  as  if  she  were  calling  up  some  vague 
remembrance,  "strange,  now  isn't  it  ?  but  he  looks  natural  as 
life." 

The  old  man  turned  a  warming  glance  toward  his  wife,  and 
then  answered,  with  a  grave  smile,  "that,  at  any  rate,  Mrs. 
G  ray  could  never  be  a  stranger  to  them,  she  who  had  done  so 
much " 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  133 

She  interrupted  him  with  one  of  her  mellow  laughs.  Thanks 
for  a  kind  act  always  made  the  good  woman  feel  awkward,  and 
she  blushed  like  a  girl.  "No,  no;  but  somehow  I  can't  give  it 
up;  this  isn't  the  first  time  we  have  seen  each  other  1" 

"I  hope  that  it  will  not  be  the  last!"  said  old  Mrs.  Warren, 
coming  gently  forward  to  her  husband's  assistance.  "Julia  has 
seen  you  so  often,  and  talked  of  you  so  much — no  wonder  we 
seem  like  old  acquaintances.  I  always  thought  Julia  looked 
very  much  like  her  grandfather!" 

"Yes,  I  reckon  it  must  be  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  evi 
dently  but  half  giving  up  her  prepossession.  "Her  face  isn't 
one  to  leave  the  mind:  I  dreamed  about  it  the  first  night  after 
she  came  into  the  market,  poor  thing — poor  thing!" 

Mrs.  Gray  repeated  the  last  words  with  great  tenderness, 
for  Julia  Warren  had  crept  close  to  her,  and  taking  one  of  her 
hands,  softly  lifted  it  to  her  lips. 

"  Come,  come,  let  us  go  in,"  cried  the  good  woman,  gently 
withdrawing  her  hand,  with  which  she  patted  Julia  on  the 
shoulder.  "  There,  there,  pick  your  grandmother  a  handful  of 
China-asters.  I  believe  the  frost  left  them  just  for  you." 

Julia  was  about  to  obey  the  welcome  command,  but  her 
glance  happened  to  fall  on  the  face  of  her  grandfather,  and  she 
hesitated.  There  was  something  troubled  in  his  look,  an  ex 
pression  of  anxiety  that  struck  her  as  remarkable. 

"  Grandpa,  what  is  the  matter  ? — you  look  pale!"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice,  for,  with  delicate  tact,  she  saw  he  wished  to  es 
cape  observation. 

"  Nothing,  child,  nothing,"  he  answered  hurriedly,  but  with 
kindness.  "  Do  not  mind  me." 

Julia  cast  one  more  <tnxious  look  into  his  face,  and  then 
stooped  to  the  flowers.  The  old  gentleman  followed  Mrs.  Gray 
and  his  wife  into  the  house. 

"  A  sweet,  pretty  creature,  isn't  she  ?"  said  Mrs.  Gray, 
watching  Julia  from  the  parlor  window,  after  she  had  put  aside 
Mrs.  Warren's  things  ;  "  and  handsome  as  a  picture !  Just 
watch  her  now  as  she  turns  her  face  this  way." 


134  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  You  are  kind  to  praise  her,"  said  Mrs.  Warren,  with  a 
gentle  smile  ;  "  you  know  how  much  it  pleases  us." 

Mrs.  Gray  laughed  and  shook  her  head.  "  I  know  how 
much  it  pleases  me,  and  that's  all  I  think  about  it,"  she  an 
swered  ;  and  the  two  warm-hearted  women  stood  together 
watching  Julia  as  she  gathered  and  arranged  her  humble 
bouquet. 

The  child  did  indeed  look  very  lovely  in  her  pink  dress — 
only  a  shilling  calico,  but  fresh  and  becoming  for  all  that.  You 
never  saw  a  more  interesting  picture  in  your  life.  The  long 
ringlets  of  her  hair  swept  from  underneath  her  bonnet,  while 
its  delicate  rose-colored  tinge  and  the  ride  had  given  her  cheek 
a  bloom  fresh  as  an  almond  flower  when  it  first  opens.  Still 
she  was  a  slender,  fragile  little  creature,  and  you  saw  that  the 
rude  winds  of  life  had  swept  too  early  over  her.  Feeling  and 
intellect  had  prematurely  developed  themselves  in  her  nature. 
In  her  face — in  her  smile — in  her  eyes,  with  their  beautiful 
curling  lashes,  there  was  something  painfully  spiritual.  Within 
the  last  few  months  this  expression  had  grown  upon  her  won 
derfully.  Her  loveliness  was  of  a  kind  to  make  you  thought 
ful,  sometimes  even  sad.  Mrs.  Gray  felt  all  this  without 
understanding  it,  and  her  heart  yearned  strangely  toward  the 
diild. 

"  It's  a  truth,"  she  said,  addressing  the  grandmother.  "  I 
feel  almost  as  if  she  were  my  own  daughter,  and  yet  I  never 
had  a  child,  and  didn't  use  to  care  for  other  people's  children 
much.  I  really  believe  that  some  day  I  shall  up  and  give  her 
these.  It's  come  into  my  mind  more  than  once,  I  can  tell  you, 
and  yet  they  were  my  mother's,  and  her  mother's  before  that." 
Here  Mrs.  Gray  ran  her  fingers  along  the  gold  beads  on  her 
neck.  "  It's  strange,  but  I  always  want  to  be  giving  her 
something." 

"  You  are  always  giving  her  something,"  said  Mrs.  Warren, 
gratefully. 

"  No,  no,  nothing  to  speak  of." 

"  That  pretty  dress  and  the  bonnet — are  they  nothing  ?" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  135 

"  And  who  told  you  that  ? — who  told  you  they  came  from 
me?" 

"  We  have  not  so  many  friends  that  there  could  be  much 
doubt,"  answered  Mrs.  Warren,  with  a  sigh.  "Julia  was  sure 
of  it  from  the  first ;  and  the  other  things  !"  continued  the  old 
lady,  in  a  low  voice,  glancing  at  her  own  neat  dress,  "  who  else 
would  have  thought  of  them  ?" 

All  truly  benevolent  persons  shrink  from  spoken  thanks.  The 
gratitude  expressed  by  looks  and  actions  may  give  pleasure,  but 
there  is  something  too  material  in  words — they  destroy  all  the 
refinement  of  a  generous  action.  Good  Mrs.  Gray  felt  this  the  more 
sensitively,  because  her  own  words  had  seemed  to  challenge  the 
f hanks  of  her  guest.  The  color  came  into  her  smooth  cheek, 
and  she  began  to  arrange  the  folds  of  her  dress  with  both  hands, 
exhibiting  a  degree  of  awkwardness  quite  unusual  to  her. 
When  she  lifted  her  eyes  again,  they  fell  upon  a  young  man 
coining  down  the  cross  road  on  foot,  with  an  eager  and  buoyant 
step.  - 

"  There  he  comes,  I  thought  he  would  not  be  long  on  the 
way,"  she  cried,  while  a  flash  of  gladness  radiated  her  face. 
"  It's  my  nephew ;you  see  him  there,  Mrs.  Warren — no,  the  ma 
ple  branch  is  in  the  way  !  Here  he  is  again — now  look  !  a 
noble  fellow,  isn't  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Warren  looked,  and  was  indeed  struck  by  the  free  air 
and  superior  appearance  of  the  youth.  He  had  evidently 
walked  some  distance,  for  a  light  over-sacque  hung  across  his 
arm,  and  his  face  was  flushed  with  exercise.  Seeing  his  aunt, 
the  boy  waved  his  hand  ;  his  lips  parted  in  a  joyous  smile,  and 
he  hastened  his  pace  almost  to  a  run. 

Mrs.  Gray's  little  brown  eyes  glistened;  she  could  not  turn 
them  from  the  youth,  even  while  addressing  her  guest. 

"  Isn't  he  handsome  ? — not  like  your  girl,  but  handsome  for 
a  boy,"  she  exclaimed  with  fond  enthusiam,  "  and  good — you 
have  no  idea,  ma'am,  how  good  he  is.  There,  that  is  just  like 
him,  the  wild  creature  !"  she  continued,  as  the  youth  laid  one 
hand  upon  the  door  yard  fence,  and  vaulted  over,  "right  into 


136  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

my  flower-beds,  trampling  over  the  grass  there — did  you 
ever  ?" 

"  Couldn't  help  it,  Aunt  Sarah,"  shouted  the  youth,  with  a 
careless  laugh,  "  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  and  the  gate  is  too 
far  off.  Three  kisses  for  every  flower  I  tramp  down — will  that 
do  ?  Ha,  what  little  lady  is  this  ?" 

The  last  exclamation  was  drawn  forth  by  Julia  Warren,  who 
had  seated  herself  at  the  root  of  the  largest  maple,  and  with 
her  lap  full  of  flowers,  was  arranging  them  into  bouquets.  On 
hearing  Robert's  voice  she  looked  up  with  a  glance  of  pleasant 
surprise,  and  a  smile  broke  over  her  lips.  There  was  something 
so  rosy  and  joyous  in  his  face,  and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice,  that 
it  rippled  through  her  heart  as  if  a  bird  overhead  had  just  bro 
ken  into  song.  The  youth  looked  upon  her  for  a  moment  with 
his  bright,  gleeful  eyes,  then,  throwing  off  his  hat  and  sweeping 
back  the  damp  chestnut  curls  from  his  forehead,  he  sat  down 
by  her  side,  and  cast  a  glance  of  laughing  defiance  at  his 
relative. 

"  Come  out  here  and  get  the  kisses,  Aunt  Sarah,  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  stay  among  the  flowers!" 

Mrs.  Gray  laughed  at  the  young  rogue's  impudence,  as  she 
called  it,  and  came  out  to  meet  him. 

"Now  this  is  too  bad,"  exclaimed  the  youth,  starting  up: 
"  don't  box  my  ears,  aunt,  and  besides  paying  the  kisses,  I  will 
embrace  you  dutifully — upon  my  life  I  will — that  is  if  my  arms 
are  long  enough,"  and  with  every  appearance  of  honest  affec 
tion,  the  youth  cast  one  arm  around  the  portly  person  of  his 
aunt,  and  pressed  a  warm  kiss  on  her  cheek. 

"You  are  welcome  home,  Robert,  always  welcome;  and  I 
wish  you  a  happy  Thanksgiving  with  my  whole  heart.  Julia 
dear,  this  is  my  nephew,  Mr.  Robert  Otis.  His  mother  and  I 
were  sisters — only  sisters  ;th1ere~were~Tliree  of  us  in  all,  two 
daughters  and  a  son.  He  is  the  only  child  among  us,  that  is 
the  reason  I  spoil  him  so." 

Julia,  who  had  just  recovered  from  the  blush  that  crimsoned 
her  cheek  at  his  first  approach,  came  forward  and  extended 


FASHION   AND   FAMINE.          137 

her  hand  to  the  youth  with  a  timid  and  gentle  grace,  that 
seemed  too  composed  for  her  years. 

"  And  Miss  Julia  Warren,  who  is  she,  dear  aunt?"  questioned 
the  youth,  in  a  half  whisper,  as  the  girl  moved  toward  the  house, 
holding  the  loose  flowers  to  her  bosom  with  one  hand. 

"  The  dearest  and  best  little  girl  that  ever  lived,  Robert;  that 
is  all  I  know  about  her!"  was  the  earnest  reply. 

"And  enough,  who  wants  to  know  any  more  about  any  one," 
returned  the  youth;  "and  yet  Mr.  Leicester  would  say  that 
something  else  is  wanting  before  we  invite  strangers  to  eat 
Thanksgiving  dinners  with  us.  He  would  say  that  all  this  is 
imprudent." 

"Mr.  Leicester  is  very  wise,  I  dare  say,  and  I  am  but  a  sim 
ple  old  woman,  Robert;  but  somehow  that  which  seems  right 
for  me  to  do  always  turns  out  for  the  best." 

"Because  what  seems  right  to  the  good  always  is  best,  my 
darling  old  aunt.  I  only  wanted  to  prove  how  prudent  and 
wise  a  city  life  has  made  me." 

"Prudent  and  wise — don't  set  up  for  that  character,  Bob. 
These  things  never  did  run  in  our  family,  and  never  will.  Just 
content  yourself  with  being  good  and  happy  as  you  can!" 

All  at  once  Robert  became  grave.  Some  serious  thought 
seemed -pressing  upon  his  mind. 

"I  always  was  happy  when  you  were  my  only  adviser,"  he 
said,  looking  in  her  face  with  a  thoughtful  sort  of  gloom. 

"Now  don't,  Robert,  don't  joke  with  your  old  aunt.  One 
would  think  by  your  looks  that  there  was  something  in  it.  I'm 
sure  it  would  break  my  heart  to  think  you  unhappy  in  ear 
nest  !" 

"I  know  it  would  !"  answered  the  affectionate  youth,  casting 
aside  his  momentary  depression.  "Just  box  my  ears  for  teasing 
you,  and  let  us  go  in — I  must  help  the  little  girl  tie  up  her 
flowers." 

Mrs.  Gray  seemed  about  to  press  the  conversation  a  little 
more  earnestly;  but  that  moment  the  Irish  girl  came  through 
the  front  door  with  an  expression  of  solemn  import  in  her  face. 


138  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

She  whipercd  in  a  flustered  manner  to  her  mistress,  and  the 
Words  "spoilt  entirely, ".reached  Robert's  ear. 

Away  went  the  aunt  all  in  a  state  of  excitement  to  the  kitch 
en.  The  nephew  watched  her  depart,  and  then  turning  thought 
fully  back,  begun  to  pace  up  and  down  the  footpath  leading 
from  the  front  door  to  the  gate.  The  first  wild  flash  of  spirits 
consequent  on  a  return  home  had  left  him,  and  from  that  time 
the  joyousness  of  his  look  grew  dim.  He  was  gay  only  by 
starts,  and  at  times  fell  into  thought  that  seemed  unnatural  to 
his  youth,  and  his  usual  merry  spirit. 

Whatever  mischief  had  happened  in  the  kitchen,  the  dinner 
turned  out  magnificently.  The  turkey  came  upon  the  table  a 
perfect  miracle  of  cookery.  The  pig  absolutely  looked  more 
beautiful  than  life,  crouching  in  his  bed  of  parsely,  with  his 
head  up,  and  holding  a  lemon  daintily  between  his  jaws.  The 
chicken-pie,  pinched  around  the  edge  into  a  perfect  embroidery 
by  the  two  plump  thumbs  of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  then  finished  off 
by  an  elaborate  border  done  in  key  work,  would  have  charmed 
the  most  fastidious  artist. 

You  have  no  idea,  reader  mine,  how  beautiful  colors  may  be 
blended  on  a  dinner-table,  unless  you  have  seen  just  the  kind  of 
feast  to  which  Mrs.  Gray  invited  her  guests.  The  rich  brown 
of  the  meats  ;  the  snow  white  bread;  the  fresh,  golden  butter; 
the  cranberry  sauce,  with  its  bright,  ruby  tinge,  were  daintily 
mingled  with  plates  of  pies,  arranged  after  a  most  tempting 
fashion.  Golden  custard;  the  deep  red  tart;  the  brown  mince 
and  tawny  orange  color  of  the  pumpkin,  were  placed  in  alternate 
wedges,  and  radiating  from  the  centre  of  each  plate  like  a  star, 
stood  at  equal  distances  round  the  table.  Water  sparkling  from 
the  well;  currant  wine  brilliantly  red — contrasted  with  the 
sheeted  snow  of  the  table-cloth ;  and  the  gleam  of  crystal ;  then 
that  old  arm-chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  its  soft  crimson 
cushions.  I  tell  you  again,  reader,  it  was  a  Thanksgiving  dinner 
worthy  to  be  remembered.  That  poor  family  from  the  misera 
ble  basement  in  New  York,  did  remember  it  for  many  a  weary 
day  after.  Mrs.  Gray  remembered  it,  for  she  had  given  delicious 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  139 

pleasure  to  those  old  people.  She  had,  for  that  one  day  at  least, 
lifted  them  from  their  toil  and  depression.  Besides,  the  good 
woman  had  other  cause  to  remember  the  day,  and  that  before 
she  closed  her  eyes  in  sleep. 

Robert  too.  In  his  heart  there  lingered  a  remembrance 
of  this  dinner  long  after  such  things  are  usually  forgotten.  .And 
Julia !  even  with  her  it  was  an  epoch",  a  mile-stone  in  the  path 
of  her  life — a  mile-stone  wreathed  with  blossoms,  to  which  in 
after  days  she  loved  to  wander  back  in  her  imagination,  as 
pilgrims  journey  to  visit  a  shrine. 

When  old  Mr.  Warren  took  the  great  crimson  easy-chair  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  and  folding  his  hands  earnestly  and  sol 
emnly,  asked  a  blessing  on  the  food,  Mrs.  Gray  could  not  forbear 
stealing  another,  and  more  searching  glance  at  his  face.  She 
could  not  be  mistaken,  somewhere  those  features  had  met  her 
eye  before ;  it  might  be  years  ago,  she  could  not  fix  the  time  or 
place,  but  she  had  seen  that  forehead  and  heard  the  voice — of 
that  she  became  certain. 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  that  dinner — the  warm,  almost  too 
warm  hospitality  !  No  wine  was  wanted  to  keep  up  the  gen- 
eral  cheerfulness  ;  the  sparkle  of  champagne  ;  the  dash  of  crys 
tals  ;  the  gush  of  song  were  all  unnecessary  there. 

Everything  was  fresh,  earnest,  and  full  of  pure  enjoyment ; 
even  old  Mr.  Warren  smiled  happily  more  than  once  ;  and  as 
for  Robert,  he  was  perfectly  brilliant  during  the  whole  meal, 
saying  the  drollest  things  to  his  aunt,  and  making  Julia  laugh 
every  other  minute  with  his  sparkling  nonsense. 

There  was  one  thing  that,  for  a  moment,  cast  a  shadow  upon 
the  general  hilarity.  By  the  great  easy-chair  occupied  by  Mr. 
Warren,  stood  an  empty  seat;  a  plate,  knife,  and  glass  was 
before  it  ;  but  when  Mr.  Warren  asked  if  any  other  guest  was 
expected,  a  profound  sigh  arose  from  the  recesses  of  Mrs. 
Gray's  bosom,  and  she  answered  sadly  that  one  guest  was 
always  expected  on  Thanksgiving  day,  but  he  never  came.  All 
the  company  saw  that  this  was  a  painful  subject,  and  no  more 
questions  were  asked  ;  but  after  dinner,  when  Robert  and  Julia 


140  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

were  under  the  old  maples,  he  told  her  in  a  low  voice  that  this 
seat  was  always  kept  standing  for  an  uncle  of  his — Mrs.  Gray's 
only  brother — who  left  home  when  a  youth,  and  had  been  a 
wanderer  ever  since.  For  him  this  empty  seat  was  ever  in 
readiness. 

Mrs.  Gray,  with  all  her  good  common  sense,  had  a  dash  of 
romance  buried  deep  somewhere  in  her  capacious  bosom.  It 
was  an  old-fashioned,  hearty  sort  of  romance,  giving  depth  and 
vigor  to  her  affections  ;  people  might  smile  at  it,  but  what  then  ? 
It  beautified,  and  gave  wholesome  refinement  to  a  character 
which  required  something  of  this  kind  to  tone  down  its  energies, 
and  soften  even  its  best  impulses. 

Thanksgiving,  in  New  England,  is  a  holiday  of  the  hearth 
stone,  a  yearly  Sabbath,  where  friends  that  are  scattered  meet 
with  a  punctuality  that  seems  almost  religious.  It  is  a  season 
of  little,  pleasant  surprises;  unexpected  friends  often  drop  in  to 
partake  of  the  festival.  It  was  not  very  singular,  considering 
all  these  things,  that  good  Mrs.  Gray  should  have  cherished  a 
fancy,  as  each  of  these  festive  holidays  came  round,  that  her 
long  absent  brother  might  return  to  claim  his  seat  at  her  table. 
They  were  orphans — and  her  home  was  all  that  he  could  clairn^ 
in  his  native  land.  She  did  hope — and  there  was  something 
almost  of  religious  faith  in  the  idea — that  some  day  her  only 
brother  would  surprise  them  with  his  presence. 

And  now  the  day  was  over,  the  landmark  of  another  year  was 
planted,  her  guests  had  departed,  and  Mrs.  Gray  sat  down  in 
her  little  parlor  alone.  There  was  something  melancholy  in  the 
solitude  to  which  she  was  left.  Every  footfall  of  the  old  mar 
ket  horse  as  he  bore  away  those  whom  she  had  made  so  happy, 
seemed  to  trample  out  a  sweet  hope  from  her  heart.  There 
stood  the  chair — empty,  empty,  empty — her  brother,  her  only 
brother,  would  he  never  come  again  ?  As  these  thoughts  stole 
through  her  mind,  Mrs  Gray  folded  her  arms,  and,  leaning  back 
in  the  old  arm-chair  that  had  been  her  father's,  wept,  but  so 
gently  that  one  sitting  by  her  would  hardly  have  been  aware  of 
it. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  141 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE   BROTHER'S   RETURN. 

My  soul  is  faint  beneath  its  unshed  tears ; 

The  earth  seerus  desolate  amid  its  flowers ; 
Oh,  better  far  wild  hope  and  racking  fears, 

Than  all  this  leaden  weight  of  weary  hours. 

Miss  LAXDON  says,  in  one  of  her  exquisite  novels,  that  the 
history  of  a  book — the  feelings,  sufferings,  and  experience  of  its 
author — would,  if  truly  revealed,  be  often  more  touching,  more 
romantic,  and  full  of  interest,  than  the  book  itself.  Alas,  alas, 
how  true  this  is  with  me  !  How  mournful  would  be  the  history 
of  these  pages,  could  I  write  of  that  solemn  under-current  of 
grief  that  has  swept  through  my  heart,  while  each  word  has 
fallen,  as  it  were,  mechanically  from  my  pen.  I  have  written 
in  a  dream  ;  my  mind  has  been  at  work  while  my  soul  dwelt 
wholly  with  another.  Between  every  sentence  fear,  and  grief, 
and  keen  anxiety  have  broken  up,  known  only  to  myself,  and 
leaving  no  imprint  on  the  page  which  my  hand  was  tracing. 
My  brother,  my  noble  young  brother,  so  good,  so  strong,  once 
so  full  of  hopeful  life!  How  many  times  have  I  said  to  my 
heart,  as  each  chapter  was  commenced,  Will  he  live  to  see  the 
end  ?  By  his  bedside  I  have  written — with  every  sentence  I 
have  turned  to  see  if  he  slept,  or  was  in  pain.  We  had  began 
to  count  his  life  by  months  then,  and  as  each  period  of  mental 
toil  came  round,  the  wing  of  approaching  death  fell  more 
darkly  over  my  page  and  over  my  heart.  Reader,  do  you 
know  how  we  may  live  and  suffer  while  the  business  of  life  goes 
regularly  on,  giving  no  token  of  the  tears  that  are  silently 
shed? 

Here,  here  !  between  this  chapter  and  the  last  he  died. 
The  flowers  we  laid  upon  his  coffin  are  scarcely  withered  ;  the 
vibrations  of  the  passing  bell  have  but  just  swept  through  the 
beautiful  valley  where  we  laid  him  down  to  sleep.  While  I  am 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

yet  standing  bewildered  and  grief-striken  in  "  the  valley  and 
shadow  of  death," — for  we  followed  that  loved  one  even  to  the 
brink  of  etelnity,  rendering  him  up  to  God  when  we  might  go 
no  further, — even  there  conies  this  cry  from  the  outer  world, 
"Write— write!" 

And  I  must  write — my  work,  like  his  young  life,  must  not 
be  broken  off  in  the  middle.  Here,  in  the  desolate  room,  where 
he  was  an  object  of  so  much  care,  I  must  gather  up  the  tangled 
thread  of  my  story.  There  is  nothing  to  interrupt  me  now — no 
faint  moan,  no  gentle  and  patient  call  for  water  or  for  fruit. 
The  couch  is  empty — the  room  silent ;  nothing  is  here  to  inter 
rupt  thought  save  the  swell  of  my  own  heart — the  flow  of  my 
own  tears. 

And  she  sat  waiting  for  her  brother,  that  kind-hearted  old 
huckster-woman,  waiting  for  him  on  that  Thanksgiving  night, 
with  the  beautiful  faith  which  will  not  yield  up  hope  even  when 
everything  that  can  reasonably  inspire  it  has  passed  away. 

The  hired  man  had  escorted  the  Irish  girl  on  a  visit  to  some 
"cousin  from  her  own  country,"  and  Robert  was  acting  as 
charioteer  to  the  Warren  family.  Thus  it  happened  that  Mrs. 
Gray  was  left  entirely  alone  in  the  old  farm-house. 

The  twilight  deepened,  but  the  good  woman,  lost  in  profound 
memories,  sat  gazing  in  the  fire,  unconscious  of  the  gathering 
darkness  ;  even  her  housewife  thrift  was  forgotten,  and  she  sat 
quiet  and  unconscious  for  the  time  as  it  passed.  There  stood 
the  table,  still  loaded  with  the  Thanksgiving  supper — nothing 
had  been  removed — for  Mrs.  Gray  had  no  idea  of  more  than 
one  grand  course  at  her  festive  board.  Pies,  puddings,  beef, 
fowl,  everything  came  on  at  once,  a  perfect  deluge  of  hospital 
ity,  and  thus  everything  remained.  It  was  a  feast  in  ruins. 
When  her  guests  went  away,  the  good  lady,  partly  from  fatigue, 
partly  from  the  rush  of  thick-coming  memories,  forgot  that  the 
table  was  to  be  cleared.  The  lonesome  stillness  suited  her 
frame  of  mind,  and  thus  she  sat,  motionless  and  sorrowful, 
brooding  amid  the  vestiges  of  her  Thanksgiving  supper. 

She  was  aroused  from  this  unusual  state  of  abstraction  by  a 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  143 

slight  noise  among  the  dishes,  and  supposing  that  the  sLck  old 
house  cat  had  broken  bounds  for  once,  she  stamped  her  foot  upon 
the  heartli  too  gently  for  much  effect,  and  brushin*  the  tcavs 
from  her  eyes,  uttered  a  faint  "  get  out,"  as  if  that  hospitable 
heart  smote  her  for  attempting  to  deprive  the  cat  of  a  reason 
able  share  in  the  feast. 

Still  the  noise  continued,  and  added  to  it  was  the  faint  creak 
ing  of  a  chair.  She  looked  around,  eagerly  arose  from  her  seat, 
and  stood  up  motionless,  with  her  eyes  bent  on  the  table.  A 
man  sat  in  the  vacant  chair — not  the  hired  man — for  his  life  he 
dared  not  have  touched  that  seat.  The  apartment  was  full  of 
shadows,  but  through  them  all  Mrs.  Gray  could  detect  some 
thing  in  the  outline  of  that  tall  figure  that  made  her  heart  beat 
fast.  The  face  turned  toward  her  was  somewhat  pale,  and  even 
through  the  gloom  she  felt  the  flash  of  two  dark  eyes  riveted 
upon  her. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  no  thought  of  robbers — what  highwayman 
could  be  fancied  bold  enough  to  seat  himself  in  that  chair  ? 
She  had  no  fear  of  any  kind,  still  her  stout  limbs  began  to  shake, 
and  when  she  moved  toward  the  table  it  was  with  a  wavering 
step.  As  she  came  opposite  her  brother's  chair  the  intruder 
leaned  forward,  threw  his  arms  half  across  the  table,  and  bent 
his  face  toward  her.  That  moment  the  hickory  fire  flashed  up ; 
she  rushed  close  to  the  table,  seized  both  the  large  hands 
stretched  toward  her,  and  cried  out,  "  Jacob,  brother  Jacob — 
is  that  you  ?" 

"Well,  Sarah,  I  reckon  it  isn't  anybody  else  !"  said  Jacob 
Strong,  holding  his  sister's  hand  with  a  firm  grip,  though  she 
was  trying  to  shake  his  over  the  table  with  all  her  might. 
"  You  didn't  expect  me,  I  suppose  ?" 

It  would  not  do  ;  with  all  his  eccentricity,  the  warm,  rude 
love  in  Jacob  Strong's  heart  would  force  its  way  out.  His 
voice  broke  ;  he  suddenly  planted  his  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
covering  his  face  with  both  hands,  sobbed  aloud. 

"Jacob,  brother  Jacob,  now  don't!"  cried  Mrs.  Gray,  coming 
round  the  table,  her  buxom  face  glistening  with  tears.  "  I'm 


\ 


144  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

sure  it  seems  as  if  I  should  never  feel  like  crying  again.  Why, 
Jacob,  is  it  you  ?  I  can't  seem  to  have  a  realizing  sense  of  it 
yet." 

Jacob  arose,  opened  his  large  arms,  and  gathered  the  stout 
form  of  Mrs.  Gray  to  his  "bosom,  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 

"  Sarah,  it  is  the  same  heart,  with  a  great  deal  of  love  in  it 
yet.  Does  not  that  seem  real  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  in  a  soft,  deep  whisper,  "  yes,  Jacob, 
that  is  nat'ral,  but  I  want  to  cry  more  than  ever.  It  seems 
as  if  I  couldn't  stop!  I  always  kind  of  expected  it,  but  now 
that  you  are  here,  it  seems  as  if  I  had  got  you  right  back  from 
heaven." 

Jacob  Strong  held  his  sister  still  closer  to  his  bosom,  and 
putting  up  his  hand,  he  attempted  to  smooth  her  hair  with  a 
sort  of  awkward  caress,  probably  an  old  habit  of  his  boyhood, 
but  his  hand  fell  upon  the  muslin  and  ribbons  of  her  cap,  and  the 
touch  smote  him  like  a  reproach.  "  Oh,  Sarah,"  he  said,  in  a 
broken  voice,  "  you  have  grown  old.  Have  I  been  away  so 
many  years  ?" 

"  Never  mind  that  now,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  whose  kindly 
heart  was  moved  by  the  sigh  that  seemed  lifting  her  from  the 
bosom  of  her  brother.  "  I  have  had  trouble,  and,  sure  enough, 
I  have  grown  old,  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  was  never  so 
happy  as  I  am  now." 

Jacob  tightened  his  embrace  a  moment,  and  then  released 
his  sister. 

"  Get  a  light,  Sarah,  let  us  look  at  each  other." 

Mrs.  Gray  took  a  brass  candlestick  from  the  mantel-piece  and 
kindled  a  light.  Her  face  was  paler  than  usual,  and  bathed 
with  tears  as  she  turned  it  toward  Jacob.  For  a  time  the  two 
gazed  on  each  other  with  a  look  of  intense  interest ;  an  expres. 
sion  of  regretful  sadness  settled  on  their  features,  and,  without 
a  word,  Mrs.  Gray  sat  down  the  light. 

"  Is  it  age,  Sarah,  or  trouble,  that  has  turned  your  hair  so 
grey  ?"  said  Jacob,  a  moment  after,  when  both  were  seated  at 
the  hearth.  He  paused,  a  choking  sensation  came  in  his  throat, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  145 

and  he  added  with  an  effort,  "  have  I  helped  to  do  it  ?  was  it 
mourning  because  I  went  off  and  never  wrote?" 

"  No,  110,  do  not  think  that,"  was  the  kind  reply,  "  I  always 
knew  that  there  must  be  some  good  reason  for  it ;  I  always  ex 
pected  that  you  would  come  back,  and  that  we  should  grow  old 
together." 

"  Then  it  was  not  trouble  about  me  ?" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind  ;  I  knew  that  you  would  never  do  any 
thing  really  wrong  ;  something  in  my  heart  always  told  me  that 
you  were  alive  and  about  some  good  work,  what,  I  could  not 
tell  ;  but  though  I  longed  to  see  you,  and  wondered  often  where 
you  were,  I  was  just  as  sure  that  all  would  end  right,  and  that 
you  would  come  back  safe,  as  if  an  angel  from  heaven  had  told 
me  so !" 

"  Yet  I  was  doing  wrong  all  the  time,  Sarah,"  answered  Ja 
cob,  smitten  to  the  heart  by  the  honest  sisterly  faith  betrayed 
in  Mrs,  Gray's  speech.  "  It  was  cruel  to  leave  you — cruel  not 
to  write.  But  it  appeared  to  me  as  if  I  had  some  excuse.  You 
were  settled  in  life — and  so  much  older.  It  did  not  seem  as  if 
you  could  care  so  much  for  me  with  a  husband  to  think  of.  I 
was  a  boy,  you  know,  and  could  not  realize  that  two  full  grown 
married  women  really  could  care  much  about  me." 

"  You  knew  when  poor  Eunice  died?"  answered  Mrs.  Gray. 
"  You  heard,  I  suppose,  that  she  was  buried  by  her  husband 
not  three  months  after  the  fever  took  him  off ;  and  about  the 
baby  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  never  heard  of  it,  I  was  too  full  of  other  things. 
I  did  not  even  know  that  your  husband  was  gone,  till  a  man  up 
yonder  called  you  the  Widow  Gray,  when  I  inquired  if  you  lived 
here.  The  last  news  I  heard  was  years  ago,  when  your  husband 
left  home  and  settled  here  on  the  Island." 

"  He  died  that  very  year,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  with  a 
gentle  fall  of  her  voice;  "  I  have  been  alone  ever  since — all  but 
little  Robert." 

"Little  Robert — have  you  a  child,  then,  Sarah  ?  I  did  not 
know  that  1" 

7 


146  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"No,  it  wasn't  my  child,  poor  Eunice  left  a  boy  behind  her. 
the  dearest,  little  fellow.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him 
when  he  first  came  here,  a  missing  baby,  not  three  months 
old,  so  feeble  and  helpless.  In  his  mother's  sickness  he  hadn't 
been  tended  as  children  ought  to  be  ;  and  he  was  the  palest 
thinnest  little  creature.  I  wasn't  much  used  to  babies,  but 
somehow  God  teaches  us  a  way  when  we  have  the  will — and 
no  creature  ever  prayed  for  knowledge  as  I  did.  Sometime* 
when  the  little  thing  fell  to  sleep,  moaning  in  my  arms,  i) 
sounded  as  if  it  must  wake  up  with  its  mother  in  heaven  ;  but 
good  nussing  and  new  milk,  warm  from  the  cow,  soon  brought 
out  its  roses  and  dimples.  He  grew,  I  never  did  see  a  child 
grow  like  him,  when  he  once  took  a  start — and  so  good-natured 
too  !" 

"But  now — where  is  the  boy  now?"  questioned  Jacob. 

"  He  was  here  this  forenoon,  almost  a  man  grown.  You  have 
been  away  so  long,  Jacob.  He  was  here  and  ate  his  Thanks 
giving  dinner.  A  perfect  gentleman,  too  ;  I  declare,  1  was 
almost  ashamed  to  kiss  him,  he's  grown  so/' 

"Then  you  have  brought  him  up  on  the  place?" 

"  No,  Jacob,  we  never  had  a  gentleman  in  our  family  that  1 
ever  heard  on,  so  I  determined  to  make  one  of  Robert." 

"  And  how  did  you  go  to  work  ?"  questioned  Jacob,  with  a 
grim  smile,  "  I've  tried  it  myself ;  but  we're  a  tough  family  to 
mould  over  ;  I  never  could  do  more  than  make  a  tolerably  honest 
man  out  of  my  share  of  the  old  stock." 

"Oh,  Robert  was  naturally  gifted,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray, 
with  great  complacency. 

"  He  did  not  get  it  from  our  side  of  the  house,  that's  certain," 
muttered  Jacob;  "  the  very  gates  on  the  old  farm  always  swung 
awkwardly." 

"  But  his  father — he  was  an  '  Otis/  you  know — Robert  looks  a 
good  deal  like  his  father,  and  took  to  his  learning  just  as  natu 
rally  as  he  did  to  the  new  milk.  He  was  born  a  gentleman.  I 
remember  Mr.  Leicester  said  these  very  words  the  first  time  he 
came  here." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  147 

Jacob  gave  a  start,  and  clenching  his  hand,  said,  only  half 
letting  out  his  breath — "  Who,  who  ?" 

"  Mr.  Leicester,  the  best  friend  Robert  ever  had.  He  used 
to  come  over  to  the  Island  to  board  sometimes  for  weeks  to 
gether,  for  there  was  deer  in  the  woods  then,  and  fish  in  the 
ponds,  enough  to  keep  a  sportsman  busy  at  least  four  months  in 
the  year.  He  took  a  great  notion  to  Robert  from  the  first,  and 
taught  him  almost  everything — no  school  could  have  made  Rob 
ert  what  he  is." 

"  And  this  man  has  had  the  teaching  of  my  sister's  child!" 
muttered  Jacob,  shading  his  face  with  one  hand.  "  Everywhere 
— everywhere,  he  trails  himself  in  my  path." 

Mrs.  Gray  looked  at  her  brother  very  earnestly.  "You  are 
tired,"  she  said. 

"  ISTo,  I  was  listening.  So  this  man,  this  Mr.  Leicester — 
you  like  him  then  ?  he  has  been  good  to  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Gray  hesitated,  and  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  fire.  "  Good 
— yes  he  has  been  good  to  us  ;  as  for  liking  him  I  ought  to.  I 
know  how  ungrateful  it  is,  but  somehow,  Jacob,  I'll  own  it  to 
you,  I  never  did  like  Mr.  Leicester  with  my  whole  heart,  I'm 
ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face  and  say  this,  but  it's  the 
living  truth  :  perhaps  it  was  his  education,  or  something." 

"  No,  Sarah,  it  was  your  heart,  your  own  upright  heart,  that 
stirred  within  you.  I  have  felt  it  a  thousand  times,  struggled 
against  it,  been  ashamed  of  it,  but  an  honest  heart  is  always 
right.  When  it  shrinks  and  grows  cold  at  the  approach  of  a 
stranger,  depend  on  it,  that  stranger  has  some  thing  wrong  about 
him.  Never  grieve  or  blush  for  this  heart  warning.  It  is  only 
the  honest  who  feel  it.  Yile  things  do  not  tremble  as  they 
touch  each  other." 

"  Why,  Jacob,  Jacob,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  it  was  right 
for  me  to  dislike  Mr.  Leicester — to  dread  his  coming — to  feel  some 
times  as  if  I  wanted  to  snatch  Robert  from  his  side  and  run  off  with 
him !  I'm  sure  it  has  been  a  great  trouble  to  me,  and  I've  prayed 
and  prayed  not  to  be  so  ungrateful.  Now  you  speak  as  if  it  was 
right  all  the  time  ;  but  you  don't  know  all ;  you  will  blame  me 


148  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

as  I  blame  myself  after  I  tell  you  it  was  through  Mr.  Leicester 
that  Robert  got  his  situation  with  one  of  the  richest  and  great 
est  merchants  in  New  York,  and  that  he  was  paid  a  salary  from 
the  first,  though  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  rich  men's  sons 
would  have  jumped  at  the  place  without  pay  ;  now,  Jacob,  I'm 
sure  you'll  think  me  an  ungrateful  creature." 

"  Ungrateful  I"  repeated  Jacob  with  emphasis,  "but  no  matter 
now  ;  the  time  has  gone  by  when  it  would  do  good  to  talk  all 
this  over.  But  tell  me,  Sarah,  what  studies  did  he  seem  most 
earnest  that  Robert  should  understand  ?  "What  books  did  they 
read  together  ?  Wj^at  was  the  general  discourse  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  it's  impossible  for  me  to  tell  ;  they  read  all  sorts 
of  books,  some  of  'em  are  on  the  swing  shelf — you  can  look  at 
'em  for  yourself." 

Jacob  arose,  and  taking  up  a  light,  examined  the  books 
pointed  out  to  him,  while  his  sister  stood  by,  gazing  alternately 
upon  his  face  and  the  volumes,  as  if  some  new  and  vague  fear 
had  all  at  once  possessed  her. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  volumes  which  Jacob  beheld  to  ex 
cite  apprehension,  even  in  the  most  rigid  moralist.  Some  of  the 
books  were  elementary;  the  rest  purely  classical ;  a  few  were  in 
French,  but  they  bore  no  taint  of  the  loose  morals  or  vicious 
philosophy  which  has  rendered  the  modern  literature  of  France 
the  shame  of  genius. 

Jacob  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  replacing  the  light  on  the 
mantel-piece,  sat  down.  His  feelings  and  suspicions  were  not 
in  the  least  changed,  but  the  inspection  of  those  books  had 
baffled  him.  Mrs.  Gray  sat  watching  him  with  great  anxiety. 

"  There  is  nothing  wrong  in  the  books,  is  there  ?"  she  said,  at 
length. 

"  No  !"  was  the  absent  reply, 

"  You  could  tell,  I  suppose,  for  it  seemed  as  if  you  were  read 
ing.  It  is  foreign  language,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  can  read  it  ?" 

"  Yes  1" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE,  149 

"But  how — where  did  you  get  so  much  learning  ?" 

Jacob  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  lost  in  profound  thought, 
striving  to  search  out  some  clue  which  would  reveal  the 
motives  of  that  evil  man  for  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  Robert 
Otis. 

"  And  these  were  all  my  nephew  studied  ?"  he  said,  at  length, 
still  pondering  upon  what  had  been  told  him. 

"  Xo,  not  all.  Those  were  the  books  ;  but  then  Mr.  Leicestei 
thought  a  good  deal  of  music  and  drawing,  but  most  of  all, 
writing.  Hours  and  hours  he  would  spend  over  that.  Every 
kind  of  writing,  not  coarse  hand  and  fine  hand  as  you  and 
I  learned  to  write — but  everything  was  given  him  to  copy.  Old 
letters,  names.  I  remember  he  practised  one  whole  month 
writing  over  different  names  from  a  great  pile  of  letters  that 
Mr.  Leicester  brought  for  copies." 

"Ha  1"  ejaculated  Jacob  Strong,  now  keenly  interested,  "so 
he  was  taught  to  copy  these  names  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  he  did  it  so  beautifully,  sometimes,  you  could  not 
have  known  one  from  the  other.  The  more  exactly  alike  he 
made  them,  the  more  Mr.  Leicester  was  pleased.  I  used  to  tell 
Robert  to  beat  the  copy  if  he  could,  and  some  of  the  names 
were  crabbed  enough,  but  Mr.  Leicester  said  that  wasn't  the 
object." 

"  No,  it  wasn't  the  object,"  muttered  Jacob,  and  now  his  eyes 
flashed,  for  he  had  obtained  the  clue. 

"  One  week,  I  remember,"  persisted  Mrs.  Gray,  "he  wrote  and 
wrote,  and  all  the  time  on  one  name.  I  fairly  got  tired  of  the 
sight  of  it,  and  Robert  too;  but  Mr.  Leicester  said  that  he 
would  never  be  a  clerk  without  perfect  penmanship." 

"  And  this  one  namo,  what  was  it  ?"  inquired  Jacob,  with 
keen  interest. 

Mrs.  Gray  opened  a  stand  drawer,  and  took  out  a  copy-book 
filled  with  loose  scraps  of  paper. 

Jacob  examined  the  book  and  the  scraps  of  paper  separately 
and  together.  Mrs.  Gray  was  wrong  when  she  said  it  was  a 
single  name  only.  In  the  book,  and  on  loose  fragments  were 


150  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

notes  of  hand,  evidently  imitated  from  some  genuine  original, 
with  checks  on  various  city  banks,  apparently  drawn  at  random, 
and  merely  as  a  practice  in  penmanship  j  but  one  bank  was  more 
frequently  mentioned  than  the  others,  and  this  fact  Jacob 
treasured  in  his  mind. 

"This  name,"  he  said,  touching  a  signature  to  one  of  these 
papers — "  whose  is  it  ?" 

"  Why  it  is  the  merchant  that  Robert  is  with,"  answered  Mrs. 
Gray.  "  That  is  the  one  he  wrote  over  so  often  !" 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Jacob,  dryly  ;  and  laying  the  copy-book 
down,  he  seemed  to  cast  it  from  his  mind. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  become  unfamiliar  with  the  features  of  her 
relative,  or  she  would  have  seen  that  deep  and  stern  feelings  were 
busy  within  him  ;  but  now  she  only  thought  him  anxious  and 
tired  out  with  the  excitement  of  returning  home  after  so  many 
years  of  absence. 

They  sat  together  on  the  hearth,  more  silent  than  seemed 
natural  to  persons  thus  united,  when  a  footstep  upon  the  crisp 
leaves  brought  a  smile  to  Mrs.  Gray's  face. 

"  I  thought  there  was  a  sound  of  wheels,"  she  said,  eagerly. 
"  It  is  Robert  come  back  from  the  ferry — how  he  will  be  sur 
prised  !" 

"  Not  now  I"  said  Jacob  Strong.  "  I  would  rather  not  see 
him  to-night — do  not  tell  him  that  I  am  here  1" 

"  But  he  will  stay  all  night  I"  pleaded  Mrs.  Gray,  whose 
kind  heart  was  overflowing  with  the  hope  of  presenting  the  youth 
to  his  uncle  without  delay. 

"  So  much  the  better  ;  I  can  see  something  of  him  without 
being  known.  Where  does  that  door  lead  ?" 

"  To  a  spare  bed-room  !" 

"His  bed-room?" 

"No.  Robert  will  sleep  up  stairs  in  his  own  chamber — he 
always  does." 

"  Yery  well,  I  will  take  that  room  ;  say  nothing  of  my  return. 
When  he  is  in  bed  I  will  come  out  again." 

"Dear  me,  how  strange  all  this  is — how  can  I  keep  still? — 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  151 

how  can  I  help  telling  him  ?"  murmured  the  good  woman,  half 
following  Jacob  into  the  dark  bedroom  ;  "  I  never  kept  a  secret 
in  my  life.  He  will  certainly  find  me  out." 

"  Hush  !"  said  Jacob  in  an  emphatic  whisper,  from  the  bed 
room  ;  "  I  will  lay  down  upon  the  bed — leave  the  door  partly 
open — now  take  your  seat  again  where  the  light  will  fall  on  you 
both.  Go— go  r 

Mrs.  Gray  took  her  seat  again,  looking  very  awkward  and 
conscience-stricken.  Robert  came  in  flushed  with  his  ride.  It  was 
a  sharp  autumnal  evening,  and  his  drive  home  had  been  rapid  ; 
a  brilliant  color  lay  ia  his  cheeks,  and  the  rich  hair  was  blown 
about  his  forehead.  He  flung  off  his  sacque,  and  cast  it  down 
with  the  heavy  whip  he  carried  in  one  hand. 

"Well,  aunt,  I  am  back  again — that  old  horse,  like  wine  I 
have  tasted,  grows  stronger  and  brighter  as  he  gets  old." 

"  But  where  is  he  ?  the  hired-man  went  away  at  dark,"  said 
Mrs.  Gray,  anxious  for  the  comfort  of  her  horse. 

"  Never  mind  him.  I  put  the  blessed  pony  up  myself.  You 
should  have  heard  the  old  fellow  whinney  as  I  gave  out  his  oats. 
He  knew  me  again." 

"  Of  course  he  did.  I  should  like  to  see  anything  on  the 
place  forget  you,  Robert ;  it  wouldn't  stay  here  long,  I  give  my 
word  for  it." 

"  Oh,  aunt,  I  would  not  have  even  a  horse  or  dog  sent  from 
the  old  place  for  a  much  greater  sin — I  know  what  it  is  1" 

"  But  you  never  were  sent  off,  Robert." 

"  No,  aunt,  but  I  went.  Instead  of  superintending  the  place, 
and  taking  the  labor  from  your  shoulders,  who  have  no  one  else 
to  depend  on — I  must  set  up  for  a  gentleman — see  city  life,  aunt. 
I  wish  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  I  had  never  left  you !" 

"  Why,  Robert — what  makes  you  wish  this  ?  or  if  you  really 
are  homesick,  why  not  come  back  again  ?" 

"  Come  back  again,  aunt  !"  said  the  youth,  with  sudden  and 
bitter  earnestness.  "  Is  there  any  coming  back  in  this  life  ? 
When  we  are  changed,  and  places  are  changed — always  ourselves 
most — how  can  a-return  to  one  spot  be  called  coming  back  ?" 


152         FASHION  AND   FAMINE. 

"  But  I  am  not  changed — the  place  is  just  as  it  was,"  pleaded 
the  kind  aunt. 

"  But  I  am  changed;  aunt — I  can  throw  myself  by  your  side, 
and  lay  my  head  upon  your  lap  as  if  I  were  a  petted  child  still, 
but  it  would  not  be  natural — we  could  not  force  ourselves  into 
believing  it  natural/' 

"  How  strangely  you  talk,  Robert  ;  to  me  you  are  a  child 

yet." 

"  But  to  myself  I  am  not  a  child,  I  have  thought,  felt — yes, 
I  have  suffered  only  as  men  think,  feel  and  suffer.  Oh,  aunt,  if 
I  had  never  lived  with  any  one  but  you,  how  much  better  it 
would  have  been  1" 

The  youth  had  cast  himself  on  the  hearth  by  his  aunt,  and 
rested  his  beautiful  head  upon  her  knee.  Tears — those  warm 
bright  tears  that  youth  alone  can  shed — filled  his  eyes  without 
impairing  their  brightness. 

The  old  lady  pressed  her  band  upon  his  hair,  and  looked 
lovingly  into  those  brimming  eyes.  "  And  this  comes  of  being 
a  gentleman  P  she  whispered,  shaking  her  head  with  a  gentle 
motion. 

The  youth  gave  a  faint  shudder,  and  turning  his  head  so 
that  his  eyes  were  buried  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  sobbed 
aloud. 

"  Why,  Robert,  Robert,  what  is  this  ? — what  trouble  is 
upon  you  ?" 

"  None,  aunt — nothing.  I  am  only  in  a  fit  of  the  blues  just 
now.  It  makes  me  home-sick  to  see  you  all  alone  here,  that  is 
all  I"  answered  the  youth,  lifting  his  face,  and  shaking  back  the 
curls  from. his  forehead,  while  he  attempted  one  of  his  old  care 
less  smiles,  but  vainly  enough. 

The  old  lady  was  distressed.  "  Is  it  money,  Robert  ? — have 
you  been  extravagant  ?  The  salary  is  a  very  nice  one  ;  but  if 
you  want  more  clothes,  or  anything,  I  wouldn't  mind  giving 
you  twenty  or  thirty  dollars.  There,  now,  will  that  do  ?" 

Blessed  old  woman,  she  did  not  understand  the  half  sad, 
half  comic  smile  that  curled  those  young  lips,  and  thinking,  m 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  153 

her  innocence,  that  she  had  dived  to  the  heart  of  his  mystery, 
her  own  face  beamed  with  satisfaction. 

"  That  is  it;  I  see  through  it  all  now;  come,  how  much  shall 
it  be — twenty,  thirty,  forty  ?  It's  extravagant,  I  know,  but 
this  day,  of  all  others,  I  feel  as  if  it  would  do  me  good  to  give 
somebody  everything  I've  got  in  the  world  ;  there,  nephew, 
there — two  tens — three  fives — a  three,  and,  and — yes,  I  have 
it — here  is  a  two.  Now  brighten  up,  and  next  time  don't  be 
afraid  to  come  and  tell  me  ;  only,  Robert,  remember  the  fate 
of  the  prodigal  son — the  husks,  the  tears — not  that  I  wouldn't 
kill  the  fatted  calf— not  that  I  wouldn't  forgive  you,  Bob — I 
couldn't  help  it;  but  it  would  break  my  heart.  If  I  was  to  be 
called  on  for  the  sacrifice,  I  couldn't  eat  a  morsel  of  the  animal, 
I'm  sure.  So  you  won't  be  extravagant  and  spend  the  hard 
earnings  of  your  old  aunt,  at  any  rate,  till  after  she's  dead  and 
gone." 

The  good  woman  had  worked  herself  up  to  a  state  of  ulmost 
ludicrous  sorrow  with  the  future  her  fancy  was  coloring.  Her 
hands  shook  as  she  drew  an  old  black  pocket-book  from  some 
mysterious  place  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  counting  out  the 
bank-notes  as  they  were  enumerated,  crowded  them  into  Rob 
ert's  hand. 

The  youth  had  altered  very  strangely  while  she  was  speaking. 
His  face  was  pale  and  red  in  alternate  flashes;  his  lips  quiv 
ered,  and  with  a  convulsive  movement  he  pressed  his  eyelids 
down,  thus  crushing  back  the  tears  that  swelled  against  them. 
Mrs.  Gray  attempted  to  press  the  bank-notes  upon  him,  but  his 
hand  was  cold,  and  his  fingers  refused  to  clasp  the  money. 
Drawing  back  with  a  faint  struggle,  he  said,  "  No,  no,  aunt,  I 
do  not  want  it!  Indeed  it  would  do  me  no  good!" 

"  Do  you  no  good!  What!  is  it  not  money  that  you  want?" 
cried  the  kind  woman.  "  Nonsense,  nonsense,  Robert ;  here, 
take  it — take  it.  I  wouldn't  mind  ten  dollars  more — it  does 
seem  as  if  I  was  crazy,  but  then  really  I  would  not  mind  it 
scarcely  at  all." 

Robert  was  more  composed  now.  The  hot  flushes  had 

7* 


154          FASHION  AND  FAMINE. 

left  his  face  very  pale,  and  with  a  look  of  firm  resolve  upon 
it. 

"  No,  aunt,  he  said,"  gently  putting  back  the  money,  "  I  will 
not  take  it.  The  salary  I  receive  ought  to  be  enough  for  my  sup 
port,  and  it  shall  ;  besides,  I  tell  you  but  the  simple  truth,  that 
money  would  do  me  no  good  whatever." 

The  old  lady  took  up  the  crushed  notes,  smoothed  them  across 
her  knee  with  both  hands,  over  and  over,  in  a  puzzled  and  dis 
satisfied  way. 

"What  is  it  that  you  are  worried  about,  if  money  will  not 
answer  ?"  she  said,  at  length. 

"  Nothing,  aunt — why  should  you  think  it  ?"  He  spoke 
slowly  and  in  a  wavering  voice  at  first,  then  with  a  sort 
of  reckless  impetuosity  he  broke  into  a  laugh.  It  was 
not  his  old  gleeful  laugh,  and  Mrs.  Gray  only  looked  startled 
by  it. 

"  There,  now,  put  up  the  old  pocket-book,  and  give  me  a 
hearty  good-night  kiss,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  I  shall  be  off  in  the 
morning  before  you  are  up." 

"  Good  night,  Robert,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  with  a  meek  and 
disappointed  air.  "That  kiss  is  the  first  one  that  ever  fell 
heavily  on  your  old  aunt's  heart.  You  are  keeping  something 
back  from  me." 

"  No,  aunt,  no  !"  The  words  were  uttered  faintly,  and  Mrs. 
Gray  felt  that  the  ardor  of  truth  was  not  there.  For  a  moment 
both  were  silent ;  Robert  had  lighted  a  candle,  and  stood  on  the 
hearth  looking  hard  into  the  blaze  ;  he  turned  his  eyes  slowly 
upon  his  aunt.  She  sat  with  one  hand  upon  the  pocket-book, 
gazing  into  the  fire.  There  was  anxiety  and  doubt  in  her  fea 
tures.  Robert  sighed  heavily. 

"  Good  night,  aunt." 

"  Good  night." 

She  listened  to  each  slow  footstep,  as  her  nephew  went  up 
stairs.  When  his  chamber  door  closed,  she  buckled  the  strap 
around  her  pocket-book,  and  dropped  it  with  a  deep  sigh  into 
its  repository  among  her  voluminous  skirts. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE,  155 

"  I  can't  understand  it,"  she  murmured — "I  can't  make  out 
what  ails  him  !" 

All  at  once  she  remembered  the  presence  of  her  brother,  and 
her  face  brightened  up.  "  Jacob  will  know  what  it  means. 
Jacob,  Jacob  !" 

Mrs.  Gray  uttered  the  name  of  her  brother  in  a  whisper,  but 
it  brought  him  forth  at  once, 

"  Well  Jacob,  you  have  seen  him — you  have  heard  him  talk. 
Isn't  he  something  worth  loving  ?" 

"  He  is  worth  loving  and  worth  saving  too,"  answered  Ja 
cob.  "  Sarah,  I  do  not  think  anything  on  earth  could  make 
my  heart  beat  as  the  sight  of  that  boy  did." 

"  He  is  in  trouble,  you  see  that,  Jacob,  and  would  not  take 
money  1  What  can  it  mean  ?" 

"  I  saw  all — heard  all.  His  nature  is  noble — his  will  strong 
— have  no  fear.  He  needs  a  firmer  hand  than  yours,  Sarah  ;  I 
will  take  care  of  him." 

"I  did  not  give  a  hint  about  you." 

"  That  was  right.  It  is  best  that  he  shouldn't  know  about 
me,  at  any  rate,  jest  now." 

"Bat  I  should  so  like  to  tell  him  !"  said  Mrs.  Gray. 

"  And  you  shall  in  time,  but  not  yet.  I  must  know  more  and 
see  more  first." 

"  Well,  you  ought  to  know  best,"  answered  the  sister,  in  a 
tone  of  gentle  submission.  "  I'm  sure  he  puzzles  me  1" 

"  Now,"  said  Jacob,  seating  himself,  "  let  us  leave  the  boy  to 
his  rest.  I  wish  to  talk  with  you  about  old  times — about  the 
people  Down  East." 

"  It  is  a  good  while  since  I  was  in  Maine,  Jacob  ;  I've  almost 
forgotten  all  about  the  folks." 

"  But  there  was  one  family  that  you  will  remember.  Old  Mr. 
Wilcox's,  I  want  to  hear  about  him." 

There  was  something  constrained  and  unnatural  in  Jacob's 
manner;  he  had  evidently  forced  himself  to  appear  calm  when 
every  word  was  sharpened  with  anxiety. 

Mrs.  Gray  shook  her  head  ;  Jacob's  heart  fell  as  he  saw  the 


156  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

motion.  "  Nothing — can  you  tell  me  nothing  ?"  he  said,  with  an 
expression  of  deep  anguish.  "  Oh,  Sarah,  try,  try  !  you  do  not 
know  how  much  happiness  a  word  from  you  would  bring  !" 

"If  I  could  but  speak  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  "how  glad  I 
should  be.  Mr.  Wilcox  sold  out  and  left  Maine  about  the  time 
we  moved  on  to  the  Island  ;  where  he  went,  no  one  ever  heard. 
It  was  a  very  strange  thing,  everybody  thought  so  at  the  time ; 
but  that  story  about  his  daughter  set  people  a-talking,  and  I 
suppose  he  couldn't  bear  it." 

Jacob  uttered  a  faint  groan — her  words  had  taken  the 
last  hope  from  his  heart.  "And  this  is  all  you  know, 
Sarah  ?" 

"  It  is  all  anybody  knows  of  old  Mr.  Wilcox  or  his  family. 
As  for  his  daughter.^-let  me  think,  that  was  just  before  you 
left  the  old  gentleman  ;  nobody  ever  heard  of  her  either.  What 
is  the  matter  are  you  going  away,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  talk  over  these  things  another  time.  Good 
night,  Sarah.  I  will  just  throw  myself"  on  the  bed  till  day 
break." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  away  to  live  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  will  see  me  every  now  and  thea  ;  I  shall 
stay  near  you — in  the  city,  may  be." 

"  Why  not  here  ?  I  have  enough  for  us  both,  and  we  two 
are  all  that  is  left,  almost.  It  seems  kind  of  hard  for  you  to 
leave  me  so  soon." 

"  Not  now,  Sarah,  by  and  by  we  will  settle  down  and  grow 
old  together  ;  but  the  time  has  not  come  yet." 

"  I  forgot  to  ask,  are  you  married,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Married  !"  answered  Jacob  Strong,  and  a  grim,  hard  smile 
crept  over  his  lips.  "  No,  I  was  never  married.  Good  night, 
Sarah." 

"  There,  now,  I  suppose  I've  been  inquisitive,  and  worried  him," 
thought  Mrs.  Gray,  as  the  bed-room  door  closed  upon  her 
brother.  "  What  a  Thanksgiving  it  has  been  ?  Who  would 
have  thought  this  morning  that  he,  would  sleep  under  my  roof 
to-night  and  Robert  close  by,  without  knowing  a  word  of  it  ? 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  157 

Well,  faith  is  a  beautiful  thing  after  all — I  was  certain  that  he 
would  come  back  alive,  and  sure  enough  he  has  !" 

Thus  Mrs.  Gray  .ruminated,  unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time, 
till  a  sense  of  fatigue  crept  over  her.  Still  she  was  keenly 
wakeful,  for,  unused  to  excitement  of  any  kind,  the  agitation 
that  crowded  upon  her  that  day  forbade  all  inclination  to 
sleep.  There  was  a  large  moreen  couch  in  the  room,  and  as 
the  night  wore  on  she  lay  down  upon  it,  still  thoughtful 
and  oppressed  with  the  weight  of  her  over-wrought  feelings. 
Thus  she  lay  till  the  candle  burned  out,  and  there  was  no  light 
in  the  room  save  that  which  came  from  a  bed  of  embers  and  the 
rays  of  a  waning  moon,  half  exhausted  in  the  maple  boughs. 

A  sleepy  sensation  was  at  length  conquering  the  excitement 
that  had  kept  her  so  long  watchful,  when  she  was  aroused  by 
the  soft  tread  of  a  foot  upon  the  stairs.  Quietly,  and  with  fre 
quent  pauses,  it  came  downward  ;  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Gray  saw  her  nephew,  in  his  night  clothes,  and  barefooted, 
glide  across  the  room.  He  went  directly  to  an  old-fashioned 
work-stand  near  the  bed-room  door,  and  opened  one  of  the 
drawers.  Then  followed  a  faint  rustle  of  papers,  and  he  stole 
back  again  softly,  and  with  something  in  his  hand. 

It  was  strange  that  Mrs.  Gray  did  not  speak,  but  some  un 
accountable  feeling  kept  her  silent,  and  after  she  heard  him 
cautiously  enter  his  room  again,  the  reflection  that  there  was 
nothing  but  his  own  little  property  in  the  stand,  tranquilized 
her.  "  He  wanted  something  from  the  drawer,  and  so  came 
down  softly,  that  I  might  not  be  disturbed,"  she  thought. 

Thus  the  kind  lady  reassured  herself,  and  with  these  gentle 
thoughts  in  her  mind  she  fell  asleep. 

Mrs.  Gray  awoke  early  in  the  morning,  and  softly  entered  the 
spare  bed-room.  It  was  empty.  No  vestige  of  her  brother's 
visit  remained.  Like  a  ghost  he  came,  like  a  ghost  he  had  de 
parted.  She  went  up  stairs- — the  nephew  was  gone.  Soino 
time  during  that  day  she  happened  to  think  of  his  visit  to  the 
work-stand.  It  was  only  the  old  copy  book  that  he  had 
taken. 


158  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE  MOTHER'S   LETTER. 

What  though  her  gentle  heart  is  breaking ! 

What  though  her  form  grows  pale  and  thin ! 
His  iron  heart  knows  no  awaking, 

Nor  tears  nor  anguish  moveth  him. 

IT  was  two  nights  after  Thanksgiving.  Leicester  had  thrown 
himself  upon  a  couch  in  his  chamber.  A  little  sofa-table  was 
by  his  elbow,  and  upon  it  a  small  and  richly  chased  salver, 
overflowing  with  notes  and  letters.  Most  of  them  were  un 
opened,  for  he  had  been  absent  several  days,  and  it  often  hap 
pened  that  when  he  once  knew  a  handwriting,  and  did  not 
fancy  the  correspondence,  letters  remained  for  weeks  unread,  on 
that  little  table,  even  when  he  was  at  home. 

But  this  morning  Leicester  seemed  to  have  nerved  himself 
to  read  everything  that  came  to  hand.  Bills,  letters  heavy 
with  red  wax  from  the  counting-room,  and  even  dirty,  square- 
shaped  missives,  stamped  with  keys  or  thimbles,  passed  suc 
cessively  through  his  hands.  These  coarse  letters  he  took  up 
first,  sorting  them  out  with  his  white  fingers  from  the  rose- 
tinted  and  azure  notes,  glittering  with  gold  and  fancy  seals, 
with  which  they  were  interspersed.  These  notes,  breathing  a 
voluptuous  odor,  eloquent  of  that  sentimental  foppery  from 
which  deep,  pure  feeling  recoils,  Leicester  flung  aside  in  disgust. 

When  all  the  business  letters  were  read,  he  selected  from 
this  perfumed  mass  three  little  snow-white  notes,  traced  in  deli 
cate  characters,  that  seemed  yet  unsteady  with  the  trembling 
hand  that  had  written  them.  A  single  drop  of  pale  green  wax, 
stamped  with  a  gem,  held  the  envelopes,  and  in  all  things  these 
notes  were  singularly  chaste,  and  unlike  those  he  had  left  so 
contemptuously  unread.  He  broke  the  seals  coldly,  and  perused 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  159 

each  note  according  to  its  date.  The  contents  must  have  been 
full  of  eloquence,  wild  and  passionate;  for  they  brought  the 
color  even  to  his  hardened  cheek,  and  toward  the  last  he  be 
came  somewhat  excited. 

"  By  Jove,  it  is  a  pity  these  could  not  be  published.  How 
the  creature  writes — a  perfect  nightingale  pouring  forth  her 
heart  in  tears.  After  all,  it  is  amusing  to  see  downright, 
earnest  love  like  this.  One — two — three — I  wonder  if  there 
are  no  more  !" 

He  began  tossing  over  the  notes  again.  "  Yes,  yes,  here  is 
another,  like  a  snow-drop  in  a  cloud  of  buttercups.  How  is 
this  ? — the  seal  black,  the  handwriting  delicately  rigid — that  of 
my  lady  mother." 

He  spoke  a  little  anxiously,  and,  unfolding  the  note,  read  the 
few  lines  it  contained  with  a  darkened  brow. 

"Ill — is  she,  poor  girl? — ill,  and  delirious  at  times — unfor 
tunate  that — physicians  must  be  called,  nurses — all  a  torment 
and  a  plague.  My  friend  Robert  has  been  of  little  use  here, 
after  all ;  I  did  think  his  handsome  face  might  have  helped  me 
safely  out  of  the  whole  business.  Now,  here  is  the  question — 
shall  I  go  up — re-assure  her — take  her  away  from  the  old  lady 
— brave  her  friends  ?  No,  it  is  not  worth  while  ;  a  bullet 
through  the  brain  must  be  unpleasant,  especially  to  a  reflecting 
mind  ;  and  these  haughty  southerners  make  short  settlements. 
Besides,  I  hate  scenes.  But  then  the  girl  is  ill,  has  fretted 
herself  to  the  brink  of  the  grave.  These  are  the  very  words — 
I  wonder  my  stately  mamma  ever  brought  herself  to  utter  any 
thing  so  pathetic.  Well,  she  has  suffered — the  worst  is  over. 
When  all  hope  is  extinguished  she  will  find  consolation,  or  die. 
Die — that  would  end  all ;  but  then  death  is  so  gloomy,  and  she 
docs  write  exquisite  letters." 

If  is  lips  ceased  to  utter  these  cold  thoughts,  and  falling  back 
on  his  couch  he  closed  his  eyes,  still  holding  the  open  note  in 
one  hand.  It  was  terrible  to  see  how  calm  and  passionless  his 
features  remained  while  he  settled  in  his  mind  the  destiny  of 
one  who  had  loved  him  so  much.  After  some  ten  minutes,  he 


160  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

opened  his  eyes,  turned  softly  on  the  couch,  and  laid  down  his 
mother's  letter. 

"  No,  I  will  not  go  near  her,"  he  said,  "  and  yet  this  is 
another  heart  that  I  am  casting  away — another  that  has  loved 
me.  How  soon- — how  soon  shall  I  have  need  of  affection  ?  A 
whole  life — conquest  upon  conquest,  and  yet  never  truly  loved 
save  by  these  two  women — the  first  and  the  last.  It  is  strange 
but  this  moment  my  heart  softens  toward  them  both.  What, 
a  tear  in  Leicester's  eye  1"  and  with  a  look  of  thrilling  self-con 
tempt  the  bad  man  started  up,  scoffing  at  the  only  pure  feeling 
that  had  swelled  his  bosom  for  mouths. 

A  waiter  stood  in  the  door.  "  Sir,  there  is  a  man  below,  who 
says  you  told  him  to  call." 

"  What  does  he  seem  like  ?" 

"A  hack-driver.  He  says  you  employed  him  one  rainy  night, 
a  long  time  ago,  and  ordered  him  to  come  again  when  he  had 
news  to  bring  ?" 

"  What,  a  tall,  awkward  fellow,  with  a  stoop  in  the  shoulders 
— tremendous  feet  and  hands  ?" 

"  That's  the  man,  sir." 

"  Send  him  up,  I  did  tell  him  to  call." 

A  few  minutes,  and  Jacob  Strong  stood  in  Leicester's  cham 
ber,  self-possessed  even  in  his  exaggerated  awkwardness,  and 
with  a  look  of  shrewd  intelligence  which  recommended  itself  to 
Leicester  at  once.  In  their  previous  acquaintance,  the  man 
of  the  world  had  seen  this  applied  solely  to  self-interest 
in  the  supposed  hackman,  and  he  hoped  to  make  this  rude,  sharp 
intellect  useful  to  himself. 

It  would  have  been  a  strange  contrast  to  one  acquainted  with 
them  both — the  deep,  wily,  elegant  man  of  the  world — tlie  honest, 
firm,  shrewd  man  of  the  people.  These  two  were  pitted  to 
gether  in  the  game  of  life  ;  and  though  one  was  unconscious, 
looking  upon  his  antagonist  as  an  instrument — nothing  more — • 
and  though  the  other  was  often  compelled  to  grapple  hard  with 
his  passions,  that  they  might  lead  him  to  no  false  move — tho 
game  was  a  trial  of  skill  worth  studying. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  16i 

"  You  told  me  to  find  out  who  the  lady  was,  and  where  she 
lived,  sir.  It  took  time,  for  these  great  people  are  always  mov 
ing  about,  but  I  have  done  it." 

"I  was  sure  that  you  were  to  be  depended  on,  my 'good 
fellow  ;  there  is  your  money.  Now  tell  me  aril  about  her.  Who 
is  she  ?  Where  does  she  live,  and  when  have  you  seen  her  ?" 

Jacob  took  the  offered  piece  of  gold,  turned  it  over  in  his 
palm,  as  if  estimating  its  value,  and  then  laid  it  on  the  table, 
before  Leicester 

"I  don't  jest  like  to  give  up  the  money,"  he  said — eyeing 
the  gold  with  well-acted  greed  ;  "but  perhaps  you  will  help  me 
in  a  way  I  like  better." 

"  How  ! — what  can  be  better  than  money  ?"  questioned  Lei 
cester.  "  I  thought  you  Yankees  considered  the  almighty  dollar 
above  all  things." 

"  Once  in  a  while  there  may  be  things  that  we  like  better 
than  that,  though  we  do  love  to  plant  the  root  of  evil  whenever 
we  can  get  seed,  jest  as  I  want  to  plant  that  are  gold  eagle 
where  it  will  bring  a  crop  of  the  same  sort." 

"  Oh,  that  is  it  !"  said  Leicester,  laughing,  "  I  thought  there 
must  be  something  to  come.  But  do  you  remember  the  old 
proverb  about  a  '  bird  in  the  hand  ?' " 

"  Wai,  yes.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  did  remember  something 
about  it,"  answered  Jacob,  putting  his  huge  hand  to  his  fore 
head  ;  "  '  a  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush/  isn't 
that  the  poetry  you  mean  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  quite  near  enough.  Now  tell  me  about  this 
lady,  and  we  will  talk  of  the  reward  after.  You  found  the 
number  of  the  house  ?" 

"  Xo.  It  wasn't  numbered  ;  but  that  made  no  difference,  she 
didn't  live  there  ;  only  staid  there  one  night.  Besides,  she 
wasn't  a  lady,  only  a  kind  of  help,  you  know  !" 

"A  governess  or  waiting-maid — I  thought  so,"  exclaimed 
Leicester.  "  Very  well,  where  is  she  now  ?" 

"  She  went  away  with  the  folks  that  she  had  been  living 
with,  up  to  Saratoga,  and  about ;  then  she  came  back,  and  they 


162  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

all  went  off  together  across  the  water,  to  where  she  came 
from." 

"  What,  to  Europe  ?  Then  that  is  the  last  of  her  I  Very 
well,  my  good  fellow,  you  have  earned  the  money." 

Jacob  looked  keenly  at  the  gold,  but  did  not  take  it. 

"  Maybe,"  said  he,  shifting  his  weight  from  one  foot  to  the 
other — "  maybe  you  can  tell  me  of  some  one  that  wants  a  hired- 
man,  to  drive  carriage,  or  do  almost  any  kind  of  chores.  I'n 
out  of  work  jest  now,  and  it  costs  all  creation  to  live  here  it 
New  York." 

Leicester  was  interested.  His  personal  habits  rendered  an 
attendant  necessary,  and  yet  he  had  of  late  been  unable  to  sup 
ply  himself  with  one  that  could  at  the  same  time  be  useful  and 
discreet.  Here  was  a  person,  evidently  new  to  the  world,  hon 
est  and  with  a  degree  of  shrewdness  that  might  be  invaluable, 
ready  to  accept  any  situation  that  might  offer.  Could  he  but 
attach  this  man  to  his  person,  interest  his  affections,  what  more 
useful  agent,  or  more  serviceable  dependent  could  be  found? 
Still  there  was  risk  in  it.  Leicester  with  his  lightning  habit  01 
thought  revolved  the  idea  in  his  mind,  while  Jacob  stood  look 
ing  upon  the  floor,  inly  a-fire  with  intense  excitement,  but  to  all 
outward  appearance  calm. 

"  You  don't  know  of  any  one  then  ?"  he  said,  at  last,  with 
assumed  indifference.  "  Wai,  I  don't  see  how  on  arth  I  shall 
get  along." 

Leicester  looked  at  him  searchingly.  Jacob  felt  the  glance, 
and  met  it  with  a  calm,  dull  expression  of  the  eye,  that  com 
pletely  deceived  the  man  who  was  trying  with  such  art  to  read 
him  to  the  soul. 

"  What  if  I  were  to  engage  you  myself  ?" 

"Wai,  now,  I  should  be  awful  glad  !" 

"  Do  you  read  ?  Of  course  !  what  Down  Easter  does  not  ? 
But  are  you  fond  of  reading  ? — in  the  habit  of  picking  up  books 
and  papers  ?" 

Jacob  saw  the  drift  of  this  question  at  once. 

"  Wai,  yes.     I  can  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible,  or  a  piece  in 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  163 

the  English  reader,  I  suppose,  as  well  as  most  folks,  though  I 
haven't  tried  much  of  late  years.  But  then,  if  you  want  a  fel 
ler  to  read  books  for  you,  why  I  don't  think  we  should  agree. 
I  was  set  agin  them  at  school,  and  haven't  got  over  it  yet." 

"  You  know  how  to  write,  of  course  ?" 

He  made  one  of  his  shuffling  bows,  and  began  to  brush  his 
hat  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat 

"  You  need  not  wait  ;  we  will  talk  about  the  wages  to-mor 
row,"  said  Leicester.  "Meantime  if  you  can  gather  any  more 
information  about — about  the  lady,  you  know  it  would  be  a 
praiseworthy  introduction  to  your  new  duties." 

Jacob  bowed  again  and  edged  himself  toward  the  door.  "1 
will  do  my  best,  you  may  be  sartain.  What  time  o'  day  shall 
I  come  to-morrow  ?" 

"  At  ten  or  two,  it  does  not  signify.     If  I  am  not  in,  wait  I" 

"  I  will  !"  muttered  Jacob,  when  he  found  himself  alone.  "  It 
is  something  to  have  learned  how  to  wait,  as  you  shall  find,  my 
new  master — master  !"  and  Jacob  laughed. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

STRIFE     FOR   AN    EARL. 

Thistledown— Thistledown  !— join  the  pursuit; 

While  fashion  flies  onward,  let  wisdom  be  mute. 
All  pleasure  is  fleeting,  and  life's  but  a  span, 

Come  gather  up,  Thistledown,  souls,  while  you  can  I 

IT  had  been  a  brilliant  season  in  the  fashionable  world  that 
year.  Saratoga  and  Newport  were  perfect  hot-beds  of  gaiety, 
splendor  and  trivial  ambition.  A  thorough  bred  nobleman  or 
two  from  England — a  German  countess — the  greatest  and  most 
popular  statesmen  of  our  own  land,  had  flung  a  dazzling  splen 
dor  over  these  places.  But  even  amid  all  this  false  life  and 


164  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

edat  there  was  one  person  whose  dress,  wit  and  beauty  became 
the  theme  of  general  comment.  She  had  taken  rooms  at  Sara 
toga  late  in  the  season.  Accommodations  for  half  a  dozen  ser 
vants — stabling  for  almost  as  many  horses,  all  was  in  prepara 
tion  long  before  the  lady  herself  appeared. 

There  was  something  about  this  to  puzzle  and  bewilder  the 
most  thorough-bred  gossip  of  a  watering-place.  The  servants 
were  foreign,  and  thoroughly  educated  to  their  vocation. 
When  questioned  regarding  their  mistress,  they  spoke  of  her 
without  apparent  restraint,  and  always  as  my  lady.  But  there 
was  no  title  attached  to  the  name  under  which  the  superb  suite 
of  apartments  had  been  engaged.  Mrs.  Gordon  !  Nothing 
could  be  more  simple  and  unpretending.  If  there  was  a  title 
behind  it,  as  the  indiscretion  of  the  servants  seemed  to  intimate, 
she  was  only  the  more  interesting. 

Mrs.  Gordon's  servants  had  lounged  about  the  United  States 
a  whole  fortnight ;  her  horses  had  been  exercised  by  the  grooms 
„  often  enough  to  attract  attention  to  their  superb  beauty,  and 
to  keep  the  spirit  of  gossip  and  curiosity  alive.  A  lady's  maid 
had  for  days  been  making  a  sensation  at  the  servant's  table  by 
her  broken  English  and  Parisian  finery.  Yet  no  one  had 
obtained  a  sight  of  the  lady.  At  last  she  appeared  in  the 
drawing-room,  very  simply  dressed,  quiet  and  self-reliant, 
neither  courting  attention  nor  seeming  in  the  least  desirous  of 
avoiding  it.  She  presented  no  letters,  sought  no  introductions. 
The  various  fashionable  cliques,  with  their  reigning  queens, 
seemed  scarcely  to  attract  the  notice  of  this  singular  woman, 
though  a  mischievous  smile  would  sometimes  dawn  upon  her 
beautiful  mouth,  as  some  petty  maneuvering  for  superiority 
passed  before  her. 

1A  creature  so  calm,  so  tranquil,  so  quietly  rcgo,rdless  of 
contending  cliques  and  fashionable  factions,  was  certain  to 
become  an  object  of  peculiar  attention,  even  though  rare 
personal  beauty,  and  all  the  appliances  of  great  wealth  had 
been  wanting.  The  reputation  of  a  title,  the  graceful  repose 
of  manners  just  enough'tinged  with  foreign  grace  to  be  piquant, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  165 

and,  above  all,  the  novelty  of  a  face  and  position  singularly 
unlike  any  tiling  known  at  the  Springs  that  season,  could  not  fail 
to  excite  a  sensation. 

If  the  lady  had  designed  to  secure  for  herself  with  one 
graceful  fling  a  place  among  the  elite  of  American  fashion,  she 
could  not  have  managed  more  adroitly.  But  even  the  design 
was  doubtful ;  she  scarcely  seemed  conscious  of  the  position 
after  it  had  been  awarded  to  her,  and  accepted  it  with  a  sort 
of  graceful  scorn  at  last,  as  if  yielding  herself  to  the  caprice  of 
others,  not  to  her  own  wishes. 

In  less  than  three  weeks  after  her  domestication  at  the 
Springs,  this  stranger,  announced  without  introduction,  and 
with  no  seeming  effort,  became  the  reigning  belle  and  toast  of 
the  higher  circles.  Her  dress  was  copied — her  wit  quoted — 
her  manners  became  a  model  to  aspiring  young  ladies,  and, 
with  all  her  power,  she  was  the  most  popular  creature  in  the 
world,  for  she  was  affable  to  all,  and  peculiarly  gentle  and 
unassuming  to  those  whom  other  fashionable  leaders  were  ready 
to  crush  with  a  look  and  wither  by  a  frown.  Sometimes  a 
dash  of  haughty  contempt  was  visible  in  her  manner,  but  this 
was  only  when  thrown  in  contact  with  assumption  and  innate 
coarseness,  which  soon  shrunk  from  her  keen  wit  and  smiling 
sarcasms.  She  was  feared  by  the  few,  but  loved,  nay,  almost 
worshipped,  by  the  many. 

When  the  season  broke  up  and  the  waves  of  high  life  ebbed 
back  to  the  cities,  this  woman  had  attained  a  firm  social 
position,  unassailable  even  by  the  most  envious  and  the  most 
daring.  Still  she  was  as  completely  unknown  as  on  the  first 
day  of  her  appearance.  Of  herself  she  never  spoke,  and  from 
the  strange  serving-man,  who,  maintaining  the  most  profound 
respect,  always  hovered  about  her,  nothing  but  vague  hints 
could  be  obtained.  These  hints,  apparently  won  from  a  simple 
and  hesitating  nature,  always  served  to  inflame  rather  than 
satisfy  curiosity.  One  thing  was  certain.  The  lady  had  seen 
much  of  foreign  life — had  travelled  in  every  penetrable  country, 
and  her  wealth  seemed  as  great  as  her  beauty.  More  than 


166  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

this  no  one  knew ;  and  this  very  ignorance,  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  added  strength  to  her  position. 

The  way  in  which  Mrs.  Gordon  shrouded  herself  had  its  own 
fascination.  True,  it  might  conceal  low  birth,  even  shame,  but 
it  had  pleased  the  fashionable  world  to  bury  a  high  European 
title  under  all  this  mystery,  and  this  belief  the  lady  neither 
aided  nor  contradicted,  for  she  seemed  profoundly  unconscious 
of  its  existence.  With  no  human  being  had  she  become  so 
intimate  that  a  question  on  the  subject  might  be  directly 
hazarded.  With  all  her  graceful  kindliness,  there  was  some 
thing  about  her  that  forbade  intrusion  or  scrutiny.  She  came 
to  Saratoga  beautiful,  wealthy,  unknown.  She  left  it  a  brilliant 
enigma,  only  the  more  brilliant  that  she  continued  to  be  mys 
terious,  though  a  title  still  loomed  mistily  in  the  public  mind. 

This  mysteriousness  was  rather  increased  in  its  effect,  and  her 
position  wholly  established  at  the  annual  fancy  ball  given  the 
last  week  of  her  stay  at  the  springs. 

During  the  whole  of  that  season  the  United  States  Hotel 
had  been  kept  in  a  state  of  delightful  commotion  by  the  rivalry 
of  two  leaders  in  the  fashionable  world,  who  had  taken  up  their 
head-quarters  in  that  noble  establishment. 

Never  was  a  warfare  carried  on  with  such  amiable  bitterness, 
such  caressing  home-thrusts.  Everything  was  done  regally, 
and  with  that  sublime  politeness  which  duellists  practice  when 
most  determined  to  exterminate  each  other.  Of  course,  each 
lady  had  her  position  and  her  followers,  and  no  military  chief 
tains  ever  managed  their  respective  forces  more  adroitly. 

Mrs.  Nash  -was  certainly  the  oldest  incumbent,  and  had  a 
sort  of  preemption  right  as  a  fashionable  leader.  She  had  won 
her  place  exactly  as  her  husband  had  obtained  his  wealth,  first 
plodding  his  way  from  the  work-shop  to  the  counting-room, 
thence  into  the  stock  market,  where,  by  two  or  three  dashing 
speculations  worthy  of  the  gambling-table,  and  entered  upon  in 
the  same  spirit,  he  became  a  millionaire. 

Exactly  by  the  same  method  Mrs.  Nash  worked  her  way  up 
ward  as  a  leader  of  ton.  Originally  uneducated  and  assuming, 


FASHION   AND   FAMINE.          167 


she  had  exercised  unbounded  sway  over 

people,  patronizing  their  wives,  and 

airs  that  were  to  be  transferred  with  her  husband's  advancement 

into  higher  circles. 

Through  the  rapid  gradations  of  her  husband's  fortune,  she 
held  her  own  in  the  race,  and  grew  important,  dressy,  and  pre 
suming,  but  not  a  whit  better  informed  or  more  refined.  When 
her  husband  became  a  millionaire,  she  made  one  audacious  leap 
into  the  midst  of  the  upper  ten  thousand,  hustled  her  way  up 
ward,  and  facing  suddenly  about,  proclaimed  herself  a  leader  in 
the  fashionable  world. 

People  looked  on  complacently.  Some  smiled  in  derision  ; 
some  sneered  with  scorn;  others,  too  indolent  or  gentle  for  dis 
pute,  quietly  admitted  her  charms  ;  while  to  that  portion  of  so 
ciety  worth  knowing,  she  retained  her  original  character — that 
of  a  vulgar,  fussy,  ignorant  woman,  from  whom  persons  of  re 
finement  shrunk  instinctively.  Thus,  through  the  forbearance 
of  some,  the  sneers  of  others,  and  the  carelessness  of  all,  she 
fought  her  way  to  a  position  which  soon  became  legitimate  and 
acknowledged. 

But  this  year  Mrs.  Nash  met  with  a  very  formidable  rival, 
who  disputed  the  ground  she  had  usurped  inch  by  inch.  If  Mrs. 
Nash  was  insolent,  Mrs.  Sykes  was  sly  and  fascinating.  With 
tact  that  was  more  than  a  match  for  any  amount  of  arrogant 
presumption,  and  education  which  gave  keenness  to  art,  found 
ed  upon  the  same  hard  purpose  and  coarse-grained  charac 
ter  that  distinguished  Mrs.  Nash,  she  was  well  calculated 
to  make  a  contest  for  fashionable  superiority,,  exciting  and 
piquant. 

Women  of  true  refinement  never  enter  into  these  miserable    \ 
rivalries  for  notoriety,  but  they  sometimes  look  on  amused.    In      » 
this  case  the  ladies  were  beautifully  matched.    The  audacity  of 
one  was  met  with  the  artful  sweetness  of  the  other.     If  Mrs. 
Nash  had  power  and  the  prestige  of  established  authority,  Mrs. 
Sykes  opposed  novelty,  unmatched  art,  and  a  species  of  ser 
pent-like  fascination  difficult  to  cope  with  ;  and  much  to  her 


1 


168  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

astonishment,  the  former  lady  found  her  laurels  dropping  away 
leaf  by  leaf  before  she  began  to  feel.them  wither. 

Always  on  the  alert  for  partisans,  both  these  ladies  had 
looked  upon  Mrs.  Gordon  with  calculating  eyes.  Beautiful, 
undoubtedly  wealthy,  and  with  that  slight  foreign  air — above 
all,  with  a  title  dropping  now  and  then  unconsciously  from  the 
lips  of  her  servants — she  promised  to  be  an  auxiliary  of  immense 
value  to  either  faction. 

For  a  week  or  two  they  hovf.red  about  her,  much  as  two 
cautious  trouts  might  coquette  with  a  fly  on  the  surface  of  a 
mountain  pool.  Both  were  afraid  to  dart  at  the  fly,  and  yet 
each  was  vigilant  to  keep  the  other  from  seeming  the  precious 
morsel. 

Thus,  while  they  were  maneuvering  around  her,  drawing 
public  attention  that  way,  Mrs.  Gordon  became  an  object  of 
very  general  admiration,  and  bade  fair,  without  an  effort,  and 
wholly  against  her  will,  to  rival  both  the  combatants,  and  like 
the  dancing  horse  of  a  Russian  chariot,  to  carry  away  all  the 
admiration,  while  the  other  two  bore  the  toil  and  burden  of  the 
road. 

But  a  few  days  before  the  fancy  ball,  a  new  fly  was  cast 
into  the  fashionable  current,  that  quite  eclipsed  anything  that 
had  appeared  before.  An  English  earl,  fresh  from  the  continent, 
came  up  to  Saratoga,  one  day,  in  a  train  from  Xew  York,  and 
would  be  present  at  the  fancy  ball. 

Here  was  new  cause  for  strife  between  the  Cashes  and  the 
Sykeses.  Which  of  these  ladies  should  secure  the  nobleman  for 
the  fancy  ball  ?  True,  the  earl  was  very  young,  awkward  as 
the  school-boy  he  was,  and  really  looked  more  like  a  juvenile 
horse-jockey  than  a  civilized  gentleman.  But  he  was  an  earl ; 
would  assuredly  have  a  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords,  if  ever  he 
became  old  enough  ;  besides,  he  had  already  lost  thirty 
thousand  dollars  at  the  gaming-table,  and  bore  it  like  a 
prince. 

Here  was  an  object  worth  contending  for.  What  American 
lady  would  be  immortalized  by  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  an 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  169 

carl  as  she  entered  the  assembly  room  ?  No  minor  claims 
could  be  put  in  here.  The  earl  undoubtedly  belonged  to  Mrs. 
Nash  or  Mrs.  Sykes — which  should  it  be  ?  This  was  the  ques 
tion  that  agitated  all  fashionable  life  at  the  Springs  to  its 
centre.  Partisans  were  brought  into  active  operation.  Private 
ambassadors  went  and  came  from  the  gambling  saloons  to  the 
drawing-rooms,  looking  more  portentous  than  any  messenger 
ever  sent  from  the  allied  powers  to  the  Czar. 

The  innocent  young  lord,  who  had  escaped  from  his  tutor  for 
a  lark  at  the  Springs,  was  terribly  embarrassed  by  so  many 
attentions.  Too  young  for  any  knowledge  of  society  in  his 
own  land,  he  made  desperate  efforts  to  appear  a  man  of  the 
world,  and  feel  himself  at  home  in  a  country  where  men  are  set 
aside,  while  society  is  converted  into  a  paradise  for  boys.  It 
is  rumored  that  some  professional  gentlemen  took  advantage  of 
this  confusion  in  the  young  lordling's  ideas,  and  his  losses  at 
the  gambling-table  grew  more  and  more  princely. 

But  the  important  night  arrived.  The  mysterious  operations 
of  many  a  private  dressing-room  became  visible.  A  hundred 
bright  and  fantastic  forms  trod  their  way  to  music  along  the 
open  colonnade  of  the  hotel  toward  the  assembly-room.  The 
brilliant  procession  entered  the  folding-doors,  and  swept 
down  the  room  two  rivers  of  human  life,  flowing  on,  whirling 
and  retiring,  beneath  a  shower  of  radiance  cast  from  the  wall, 
and  the  chandeliers  that  seemed  literally  raining  light.  In  her 
toilet,  the  American  lady  is  not  a  shade  behind  our  neighbors 
of  Paris  ;  and  no  saloon  in  the  world  ever  surpassed  this  in 
picturesque  effect  and  richness  of  costume.  Diamonds  were 
plentiful  as  dew-drops  on  a  rose  thicket.  Pearls  embedded  in 
lace  that  Queen  Elizabeth  would  have  monopolised  for  her  own 
toilet,  gleamed  and  fluttered  around  those  republican  fairies,  a 
decided  contrast  to  the  checked  handerchief  that  Ben.  Franklin 
used  at  the  European  court,  or  the  bare  feet  with  which  our 
revolutionary  fathers  trod  the  way  to  our  freedom  through  the 
winter  snows.  After  the  gay  crowd  had  circulated  around  the 
room  awhile,  there  was  a  pause  in  the  music,  a  breaking  up  of 

8 


170  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

the  characters  into  groups  ;  then  glances  were  cast  toward  the 
door,  and  murmurs  ran  from  lip  to  lip.     Neither  Mrs.  Nash  or 
her  rival  had  yet  appeared  ;  as  usual  their  entrance  was  ar 
ranged  to  make  a  sensation.      How  Dodsworth's  ?eader  knew 
the  exact  time  of  this  fashionable's  advent,  I  do  not  pretend  to 
say.     Certain  it  is,  just  as  the  band  struck  up  an  exhilarating 
inarch,  Mrs.  Z.  Nash  entered  the  room  with  erect  front  and 
pompous  triumph,  holding  the  English  earl   resolutely  by  the 
arm.      Mrs.  Theodore  Sykes  came  in  a  good  deal  subdued  and 
crestfallen,  after  the  dancing  commenced.     She  was  escorted  by 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  of  our  American  statesmen,  which 
somewhat  diminished  the  bitterness  of  her   defeat.     Her  fancy 
dress  was  one  blaze  of  diamonds,  and  when  Mrs.  Nash  sailed  by, 
holding  the  young  earl  triumphantly  by  the  arm,  she  seemed 
oblivious  of  the  noble  presence,  but  was  smiling  up  into  the 
eyes  of  her   august  companion,  as  if  an  American  statesman 
-really  were  some  small  consolation  for  the  loss  of  a  schoolboy 
nobleman,  who  looked  as  if  he  would  give  his  right  arm,  which 
however,  belonged  to  Mrs.  Nash  just  then,  to  be  safe  at  home, 
even  with  his  tutor.     When  Mrs.  Gordon  entered  the  room,  no 
-  one  could  have  told.    When  first  observed,  she  was  sitting  at  an 
open  window  which  looked  into  the  public  grounds.  The  light  was 
striking  aslant  the  white  folds  of  a  brocaded  silk,  and  on  the  deli 
cate  marabout  feathers  in  her  hair,  with  the  brilliancy  of  sunshine, 
playing  upon  wreaths  of  newly  fallen  snow.     She  evidently  had 
no  desire  to  enter  into  the  spirited  competition  going  on  between 
the  rival  factions.     When  a  crowd  of  admirers  gathered  around 
the  window,  she  received  them  quietly,  but  without  empress- 
meut.    At  length,  as  if  weary  with  talking,  she  took  the  first  arm 
offered,  and  sauntered  into  the  crowd,  searching  it  with  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  feared  or  expected  some  one.     The  first  dance 
had  broken  up  ;  all  was  gay  confusion,  when  unwittingly  she 
came  face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Nash,  who  was  sailing  down  the 
room  with  her  captive.     The  young  earl,  who  had  remained 
awkwardly  shy  since  his  entrance,  gave  a  start  of  recognition, 
his  sullen  features  lighted  up,  and  freeing  his  arm  from  the 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  Hi 

grasp  of  Mrs.  Nash,  with  an  unceremonious  "  Excuse  me, 
Madam  1"  he  advanced  with  both  hands  extended. 

"My  dear,  dear  lady,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  1" 

The  lady  reached  out  her  hand,  smiling  and  cordial.  "  You, 
here  ?"  she  answered,  shaking  her  head,  "  and  alone,  ah  tru 
ant  1" 

"  It  wasn't  my  fault  ;  I  was  deluded  off — kidnapped — but  by 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world  ;  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it."  "With 
a  hurried  bow  to  the  party  he  was  about  to  leave.  The  youth 
placed  himself  in  a  position  to  converse  with  Mrs.  Gordon,  as 
she  passed  with  her  previous  escort,  quite  unconscious  of  her 
triumph,  or  of  the  rage  it  had  occasioned.  The  lady  bent  her 
head  with  matronly  grace,  and  resumed  her  walk.  "  And  so 
you  have  run  away  from  the  good  tutor  T'  she  said. 

"  Run  away  ?  oh,  nothing  of  the  sort;  he  consented  to  let  me 
come.  Leicester  can  do  anything  with  him.  A  deuced  clever 
fellow,  that  Leicester  ;  you  know  him  of  course  !  Everybody 
knows  Leicester,  I  believe.  Ha,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Did  I 
tread  on  your  dress  ?" 

"Xo  no  !  you  were  saying  something  of — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  Leicester — a  wonderful  fellow — we  have  only 
known  him  a  week  or  two,  and  he  can  do  anything  with  my 
tutor — got  me  off  up  here  like  magic  1" 

"  And  do  you  like  him  ?" 

"  Well,  now,  you'll  confess  it's  rather  hard  to  like  a  man  who 
has  won  ten  thousand  dollars  from  you,  in  one  night ;  but  I  do 
rather  fancy  him,  in  spite  of  it." 

"  Has  he  won  this  money  from  you  ?"  inquired  the  lady,  in  a 
low  voice — "  you,  a  minor  !" 

"  Entre  nous,  yes  ;  but  it  was  all  above-board,  and  in  the 
most  gentlemanly  manner." 

"  Is  Mr.  Leicester  at  the  hotel  ?  Has  he  ever  presented 
himself  in  the  drawing-room  ?" 

"  Xo  ;  he  thinks  the  ladies  a  bore.  I  thought  so  myself,  ten 
minutes  ago  ;  but  now,  with  an  old  friend,  it  is  different.  The 
sight  of  you  brought  me  back  to  Florence.  You  were  kind  to 


172  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

me  there  :  I  shall  never,  never  forget  the  days  and  nights  of 
that  terrible  fever  ;  but  for  you,  I  must  have  died." 

"  I  was  used  to  sickness,  you  know,"  answered  the  lady,  iii  a 
faltering  voice. 

"  I  remember,"  answered  the  earl,  "  that  lovely  girl—  your 
relative,  I  believe — did  she  recover  in  Florence  ?" 

"  She  died  there,"  was  the  low  reply. 

"  As  I  might  have  done,  but  for  you,"  he  answered,  with  feel 
ing.  "  It  was  the  first  idea  I  ever  had  of  a  mother's  kindness." 

"  And  do  you  really  feel  this  little  service  so  much  ?" 

"  I  only  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  prove  how  much  !" 

"  You  can,  easily." 

"How,  lady?" 

"  Return  to  your  tutor  in  the  morning — break  off  all  acquaint 
ance  with  this  gentleman." 

MVhat^-Leicester  ?" 

"Yes,  Leicester. ; 

"  That  is  easy  ;  he  left  for  New  York  this  evening,  and  I  go 
forward  to  Canada.  Is  there  nothing  more  difficult  by  which  I 
can  prove  my  gratitude  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  tell  me  all  that  has  passed  between  you  and  this  Mr. 
Leicester,  but  not  here — let  us  walk  down  into  the  drawing- 
room." 

A  few  moments  after,  Mrs.  Sykes  drew  softly  up  to  Mrs. 
Nash,  with  one  of  her  sweetest  smiles  :  "  His  lordship,  after  all, 
glides  back  to  his  own  countrywomen  ;  we  Americans  stand 
no  chance,"  she* said. 

Mrs.  Nash  bit  her  lip,  and  gave  the  folds  of  her  gold-colored 
moire  a  backward  sweep  with  her  hand. 

"  I  fancy  the  earl  is  not  anxious  to  extend  his  attention  be 
yond  its  present  limit  ;  I  always  said  she  was  worth  knowing. 
Mrs.  Gordon  seems  an  old  acquaintance.  We  may,  perhaps,  now 
find  out  who  she  really  is  ;  I  will  ask  him  in  the  morning." 

"  Do  !"  cried  half  a  dozen  voices — "we  always  thought  her 
somebody,  but  really,  she  quite  patronises  the  earl  himself :  do 
ask  all  about  her,  when  his  lordship  comes  back." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  173 

It  was  a  vain  request — the  young  earl  had  left  the  ball-room 
for  good  ;  and  long  before  the  persons  grouped  around  Mrs. 
Nash  had  left  their  beds  in  the  morning,  he  was  passing  up 
Lake  Champlain,  sleepily  regarding  the  scenery  along  its  shore. 

That  same  morning,  Mrs.  Gordon  left  Saratoga,  so  early  that 
no  one  witnessed  her  departure.  But  two  or  three  young  men, 
who  had  finished  up  their  fancy  ball  in  the  open  air,  reported  that 
she  was  seen  at  daybreak,  on  the  colonnade,  talking  very  ear 
nestly  to  her  tall,  awkward  serving-man,  for  more  than  half  an 
hour. 

Mrs.  Gordon — for  thus  the  lady  continued  to  be  known — came 
to  New  York  early  in  the  autumn,  and  in  the  great  emporium 
began  a  new  phase  of  her  erratic  and  brilliant  life. 

A  mansion,  in  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  had  been  in  the 
course  of  erection  during  the  previous  year.  It  was  a  castella 
ted  villa  in  the  very  suburbs,  standing  upon  the  gentle  swell  of 
a  hill,  and  commanding  a  fine  view  both  of  the  city,  and  the 
beautiful  scenery  that  lies  upon  the  North  and  East  Rivers. 

A  few  ancient  trees,  rooted  when  New  York  was  almost  a 
distant  city,  stood  around  this  dwelling,  sheltering  with  their 
old  and  leafy  branches  the  glowing  flowers  and  rare  shrubbery 
with  which  grounds  of  considerable  extent  were  crowded. 

This  dwelling,  so  graceful  in  its  architecture,  so  fairy-like  in 
its  grounds,  had  risen  as  if  by  magic  among  those  old  trees. 
Lavish  was  the  cost  bestowed  upon  it;  rich  and  faultless  was 
the  furniture  that  arrived  from  day  to  day  after  the  masons 
and  artists  had  completed  their  work.  Statues  of  Parian  mar 
ble,  rich  bronzes,  antique  carvings  in  wood,  and  the  most  sump 
tuous  upholstery  were  arranged  by  the  architect  who  had 
superintended  the  building,  and  who  acted  under  directions 
from  some  person  abroad. 

When  all  was  arranged,  drawing-rooms,  library,  ladies'  bou 
doir  and  sleeping  chambers,  that  might  have  sheltered  the  repose 
of  an  Eastern  princess,  the  house  was  closed.  Those  who  passed 
it  could  now  and  then  catch  a  glimpse  of  rich  fresco  paintings, 
upon  the  walls,  through  a  half-fastened  shutter ;  and  through 


174  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

the  hot-house  windows  might  be  seen  a  little  world  of  exotic 
plants,  dropping  their  rich  blossoms  to  waste  ;  while  the  walls 
beyond  were  laden  with  fruit  ripening  in  the  artificial  atmos 
phere.  Grapes  and  nectarines  fell  from  bough  and  vine,  untasted, 
or  only  to  be  gathered  stealthily  by  the  old  man  who  had  tem 
porary  charge  of  the  grounds. 

Thus  everything  remained  close  and  silent,  like  some  en 
chanted  palace  of  fairy  land,  week  after  week,  till  the  autumn 
came  on.  Since  the  architect  left  it,  no  person  save  the  old 
gardener,  had  ever  been  observed  to  enter  even  the  delicate  iron 
railing  that  encompassed  the  grounds.  True,  the  neighbors,  to 
whom  this  dwelling  had  become  an  object  of  great  interest,  were 
heard  to  assert  that  aj;  a  time,  early  in  the  summer,  lights  had 
been  observed  one  stormy  night,  in  the  second-story,  and  even 
high  up  in  the  principal  tower.  Some  even  persisted  that  before 
it  was  quite  dark,  a  close  carriage  had  been  driven  up  to  the 
door  and  away  again,  leaving  two  or  three  persons,  who  cer 
tainly  entered  the  house.  After  that,  carriage  wheels  had  more 
than  once  been  heard  above  the  storm,  rolling  to  and  fro,  as  if 
people  were  coming  and  going  all  night. 

The  next  morning,  when  all  the  neighborhood  was  alive  with 
curiosity,  this  dwelling  stood  as  before — stately  and  silent, 
amid  the  old  forest  trees.  The  shutters  were  closed  ;  the  gate 
locked.  Not  a  trace  could  be  found  proving  that  any  human 
being  had  entered  the  premises.  So  the  whole  story  was  gene 
rally  set-down  as  an  Irish  fiction,  though  the  servant  girl,  who 
originated  it,  persisted  stoutly  that  she  had  not  only  seen  lights 
and  heard  the  wheels,  but  had  caught  glimpses  of  a  cashmere 
shawl  within  the  door ;  and  of  a  little  barefooted  girl,  with  a  basket 
on  her  arm,  coming  out  half  an  hour  after,  and  alone.  But  there 
stood  the  closed  and  silent  house — and  there  was  the  talkative 
old  gardener  in  contradiction  of  this  marvellous  tale.  Besides, 
carriages  were  always  going  up  and  down  the  avenue  upon 
which  the  dwelling  stood,  and  out  of  this  the  girl  had 
probably  found  material  for  her  fiction.  Certain  it  was,  that  from 
this  time  till  October  no  being  was  seen  to  enter  the  silent  palace. 


FASHION   AND   FAMINE.          175 

Then,  in  the  first  golden  flush  of  autumn,  the  house  was  flung 
open.  Carriages  came  to  and  fro  almost  every  hour.  Saddle 
horses,  light  phaetons,  and  an  equipage  jet  more  stately,  drove  in 
and  out  of  the  stables.  The  windows,  with  all  their  wealth  of 
gorgeously  tinted  glass,  were  open  to  the  hazy  atmosphere  ; 
grooms  hung  ground  the  stables ;  footmen  glided  over  the 
tesselated  marble  of  the  entrance-hall 

Conspicuous  among  the  rest,  was  one  tall,  awkwardly-shaped 
man,  who  came  and  went  apparently  at  pleasure.  His  duties 
seemed  difficult  to  define,  even  by  the  curious  neighbors.  Some 
times  he  drove  the  carriage,  but  never  unless  the  lady  of  the 
mansion  rode  in  it.  Sometimes  he  opened  the  door.  Again  he 
might  be  seen  in  the  conservatory,  grouping  flowers  with  the 
taste  and  delicacy  of  a  professed  artist;  or  in  the  hot-houses, 
gathering  fruit  and  arranging  it  in  rich  masses  for  the  table. 
It  was  marvellous  to  see  the  beautiful  effect  produced  by  those 
great,  awkward  hands.  The  very  japonicas  and  red  roses 
seemed  to  have  become  more  glowing  and  delicate  beneath  his 
touch.  But  after  the  first  week  this  man  almost  wholly  disap 
peared  from  the  dwelling.  Sometimes  he  might  be*  seen  steal 
ing  gently  in  at  nightfall,  or  very  early  in  the  morning  ;  but  his 
active  superintendence  was  over ;  he  seemed  to  be  no  longer  an 
inmate,  but  one  who  came  to  the  place  occasionally  to  inquire 
after  old  friends. 

But  the  mistress  of  all  this  splendor — the  beautiful  woman 
who  sometimes  came  smilingly  forth  to  enter  her  carriage,  who 
sauntered  now  and  then  into  the  conservatory,  blooming  as  the 
flowers  that  surrounded  her,  mature  in  her  loveliness  as  the     \ 
fruit  that  hung  upon  the  walls  bathS  in  the  golden  sunshine — 
who  was  this  woman,  with  her  unparalleled  attractions,  her  al 
most  fabulous  wealth  ?     The  world  asked  this  question  without 
an  answer,  for  the  Mrs.  Gordon  of  Saratoga,  and  the  Ada\ 
Leicester  of  our  story,  satisfied  no  curiosity  regarding  her  per- ) 
sonal  history.     She  visited  no  one  who  did  not  first  seek  her 
companionship,  and  thus  deprived  society  of  its  right  to  ques 
tion  her. 


176  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Wer  who  know  this  woman  by  her  right  name,  and  in  her 
true  character — that  of  a  disappointed,  erring,  but  still  affec 
tionate  being — might  wonder  at  her  bloom,  her  smiling  cheer 
fulness,  her  easy  and  gentle  repose  of  look  and  manner ;  but 
human  nature  is  full  of  such  contradictions,  teeming  with 
serpents,  absolutely  hidden  and  bathed  in  the  perfume  of 
flowers. 

If  Ada  Leicester  smiled,  she  was  not  the  less  sad  at  heart, 
If  her  manners  were  easy  and  her  roice  sweet,  it  was  habit — the 
necessity  of  pleasing  others — that  had  rendered  these  things  a 
second  nature  to  her.  With  one  great,  and,  we  may  add,  almost 
holy  object  at  heart,  she  pursued  it  earnestly,  while  all  the  routine 
of  life  went  on  as  if  she  had  no  thought  but  for  the  world,  and 
no  pleasure  or  aim  beyond  the  luxurious  life  which  seemed  to 
render  her  existence  one  continued  gleam  of  Paradise. 

Hitherto  we  have  seen  this  woman  in  the  agony  of  perverted 
love — perverted,  though  legal,  for  its  object  was  vile  ;  and  wor 
ship  of  a  base  thing  is  hideous  according  to  its  power.  We 
have  seen  her  bowed  down  with  grief,  grovelling  to  the  very 
soil  of  lief  native  valley,  in  passionate  agony.  But  these  were 
phases  in  her  life,  and  extremes  of  character  which  seldom  ap 
peared  before  the  world. 

It  is  a  mistake  when  people  fancy  that  any  life  can  be  made 
up  of  unmitigated  sorrow.  Even  evil  has  its  excitement  anil 
its  gleams  of  wild  pleasure,  vivid  and  keen.  The  sting  of  con 
science  is  sometimes  forgotten  •  the  viper,  buried  so  deeply  in 
flowers  that  his  presence  is  scarcely  felt,  till,  uncoiling  with  a 
fling,  he  dashes  them  all  aside,  withered  by  his  hot  breath  and 
spotted  with  venom,  llffis  heart-shock,  while  it  lasts,  is  terri 
ble  ;  but  those  who  have  no  strength  to  cast  forth  the  serpent 
bury  him  again  in  fresh  flowers,  and  lull  him  to  a  poisonous 
sleep  in  some  secret  fold  of  the  heart,  till  he  grows  restless  and 
fierce  once  more. 

With  all  her  splendor,  Ada  Leicester  was  profoundly  un 
happy.  The  deep  under-current  of  her  heart  always  welled  up 
bitter  waters.  Let  the  surface  sparkle  as  it  would,  tears  were 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  177 

constantly  sleeping  beneath.  There  is  no  agony  like  that  of  a 
heart  naturally  pure  and  noble,  which  circumstance,  weakness, 
or  temptation  has  warped  from  its  integrity.  To  know  your 
self  possessed  of  noble  powers,  to  appreciate  all  the  sublimity 
of  goodness,  and  yet  feel  that  you  have  undermined  your  own 
strength,  and  cast  a  veil  ove-r  the  beautiful  through  which  you 
can  never  see  clearly,  this  is  deep  sorrow — this  is  the  darkness 
and  punishment  of  sin.  If  we  could  but  know  how  evil  is  pun 
ished  in  the  heart  of  the  evil-doer,  charity  would  indeed  cover 
a  multitude  of  sins. 

Ada  Leicester  was  unhappy — so  unhappy  that  the  beggar  at 
her  gate  might  have  pitied  her.  The  pomp,  the  adulation  which 
surrounded  her,  had  become  a  habit ;  thus  all  the  zest  and 
novelty  of  first  possession  was  gone,  and  these  things  became 
necessary,  without  gratifying  the  hungry  cry  of  her  soul. 

At  this  period  of  her  life  she  was  utterly  without  objects  of 
attachment;  and  what  desolation  is  equal  to  this  in  a  woman's 
heart  ?  The  thwarted  affections  and  warm  sympathies  of  her 
nature  became  clamorous  for  something  to  love.  Her  whole 
being  yearned  over  the  blighted  affections  of  other  days  ;  mater 
nal  love  grew  strong  within  her.  She  absolutely  panted  to  fold 
the  child,  abandoned  in  a  delirium  of  passionate  resentment, 
once  more  to  her  bosom.  But  that  child  could  nowhere  be  found. 
Her  parents,  too — that  noble,  kind  old  man,  who  had  loved  her 
so — that  meek  and  loving  woman,  her  mother — had  the  earth 
opened  and  swallowed  them  up  ?  was  she  never  to  see  them  more  ? 
— to  what  terrible  destitution  might  her  sin  have  driven  them. 

The  time  had  been  when  this  proud  woman  shrunk  from 
meeting  persons  so  deeply  injured — but  oh,  how  fervently  loved  ! 
Now  she  absolutely  panted  to  fling  herself  at  their  feet,  and 
crave  forgiveness  for  all  the  shame  and  anguish  her  madness 
had  cast  upon  them.  In  all  this  her  exertions  had  been  cruelly 
thwarted ;  parents,  child,  everything  that  had  loved  her  and 
suffered  for  her,  seemed  swept  into  oblivion.  The  past  was  but 
a  painful  remembrance,  nof  *  Treck  of  it  remained  save  in  her 
own  mind. 

8* 


178  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Another  feeling  more  powerful  than  filial  or  maternal  love — 
more  absorbing — more  ruthlessly  adhesive,  was  the  love  she 
could  not  conquer  for  the  man  who  had  been  the  first  cause  of 
all  the  misery  and  wrong  against  which  she  was  struggling.  It 
was  the  one  passion  of  a  life-time — the  love  of  a  warm,  impul 
sive  heart — of  a  vivid  intellect,  and,  say  what  we  will,  this  is  a 
love  that  never  changes — never  dies.  It  may  be  perverted — it 
may  be  wrestled  with  and  cast  to  the  earth  for  a  time  ;  but 
such  love  once  planted  in  a  woman's  bosom,  burns  there  so  long 
as  a  spark  is  left  to  feed  its  vitality ;  burns  there,  it  may  be, 
for  ever  and  ever,  a  blessing  or  a  curse. 

To  Ada  Leicester  it  was  a  curse,  for  it  outlived  scorn.  It 
crushed  her  self-respect — it  fell  like  a  mildew  upon  all  the  good 
resolutions  that,  about  this  time,  began  to  spring  up  and 
brighten  in  her  nature.  You  would  not  have  supposed  that 
proud,  beautiful  woman  so  humble  in  her  love — her  hopeless 
loye — of  a  bad  man,  and  that  man  the  husband  whom  she  had 
wronged !  Yet  so  it  was.  ^Notwithstanding  the  past :  not 
withstanding  all  the  perfidy  and  cruel  scorn  with  which  he  had 
deliberately  urged  her  on  to  ruin,  she  would  have  given  up 
anything,  everything  for  one  expression  of  affection,  such  as 
had  won  the  love  of  her  young  heart.  But  even  here,  where 
the  accomplishment  of  her  wish  would  surely  have  proved  a 
punishment,  her  affections  were  flung  rudely  back. 

And  now,  when  all  her  efforts  were  in  vain,  when  no  one 
could  be  found  to  accept  her  penitence,  or  return  some  little 
portion  of  the  yearning  tenderness  that  filled  her  heart,  she 
plunged  recklessly  into  the  world  again.  The  arrow  was  in 
her  side ;  but  she  folded  her  silken  robes  over  it,  and  strove  to 
feed  her  great  want  with  the  husks  of  fashionable  life  ;  alas,  how 
vainly!  To  persons  of  her  passionate  nature,  the  very  attempt 
thus  to  appease  the  soul's  hunger  is  a  mockery.  Ada  Leicester 
felt  this,  and  at  times  she  grew  faint  amid  her  empty  splendor. 
She  had  met  with  none  of  the  usual  retributions  which  are  the 
coarser  and  more  common  result  of  faults  like  hers.  No  disgrace 
clung  to  her  name :  she  had  wealth,  beauty,  position,  homage. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  179 

But  who  shall  say  that  the  punishment  of  her  sin  was  not  great 
even  then  ?  for  there  is  no  pain  to  some  hearts  so  great  as  a  con 
sciousness  of  undeserved  homage.  Still  this  was  but  the  silver 
edging  to  the  cloud  that  had  begun  to  rise  and  darken  over 
her  life.  Her  own  proud,  warm  heart  was  doomed  to  punish 
itself  to  the  utmost 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

THE     MORNING    LESSON. 

Like  some  poor  cherub  gone  astray, 

From  out  his  native  paradise, 
Her  gentle  soul  had  lost  its  way, 

And  fed  itself  on  tears  and  sighs, 

JACOB  STRONG  was  alone  in  Mr.  Leicester's  chamber.  His 
master  had  gone  out  hurriedly,  and  left  the  room  in  considerable 
disarray.  Papers  were  scattered  about  loose  upon  the  table. 
The  small  travelling  desk,  which  usually  stood  upon  it,  was 
open,  and  on  the  purple  lining  lay  an  open  letter,  bearing  a 
Southern  post-mark,  that  had  evidently  arrived  by  the  morning 
mail. 

We  do  not  pretend  to  justify  our  friend  Jacob,  though  he  is 
an  especial  favorite,  in  the  course  he  pursued  on  that  occasion. 
His  reasons  may  possibly  be  deemed  justifiable  by  the  reader, 
but  in  our  minds  there  still  rests  a  doubt.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
Jacob  took  up  the  open  letter,  and  glanced  hurriedly  over  its 
contents  :  then  he  read  it  more  deliberately,  while  a  new  and  sin 
gular  expression  stole  over  his  features.  This  did  not  seem 
sufficient  gratification  of  his  curiosity,  for  he  even  opened  a  com 
partment  of  the  desk,  and  pursued  his  research  among  notes,  vis 
iting  cards,  bills  and  business  papers,  for  a  good  half  hour,  dot 
ting  down  a  hasty  memorandum  now  and  then,  with  a  gold  and 
amethyst  pen,  which  he  took  from  Leicester's  inkstand.  Then 


180  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

he  read  the  open  letter  a  third  time,  muttering  over  the  words 
as  if  anxious  to  fix  them  on  his  mind  by  the  additional  aid  of 
sound, 

"  That  will  do — that  will  clinch  the  matter  ;  he  will  never  let 
this  escape  I"  he  said,  at  last,  replacing  the  letter.  "  Cautions, 
subtle  as  he  is,  this  temptation  will  be  too  strong.  Then, 
then " 

Jacob's  eyes  flashed  ;  he  pressed  the  knuckles  of  one  large 
hand  hard  upon  the  desk,  and  firmly  shut  his  teeth. 

That  moment  a  stealthy  tread  was  heard  near  the  door. 
Jacob  instantly  commenced  making  a  terrible  noise  and  confu 
sion  among  the  chairs,  and  while  he  was  occupied  in  setting 
things  right,  after  his  awkward  fashion,  Leicester  glided  into 
the  chamber.  Remembering  the  letter,  he  had  hurried  back  to 
secure  it  from  the  possible  curiosity  of  his  servant.  But  Jacob 
was  busy  with  the  furniture,  muttering  his  discontent  against  the 
untidy  chamber-maid,  and  seemed  so  completely  occupied  with  an 
old  silk  handkerchief,  which  he  was  flourishing  from  one  object  to 
another,  that  all  suspicion  forsook  Leicester.  He  quietly  closed 
the  desk,  therefore,  and  placing  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  sunk  into 
an  easy  chair,  which  Jacob  had  just  left  clouded  in  a  dusky 
haze,  while  he  commenced  operations  on  a  neighboring  sofa. 

Something  more  exciting  than  usual  must  have  occupied  Lei 
cester's  thoughts  ;  or,  with  his  fastidious  habits,  he  would  not  for 
a  moment  have  endured  the  perpetual  clouds  of  dust  that  floated 
over  his  hair  and  clothes,  whenever  Jacob  discovered  a  new 
object  upon  which  to  exercise  his  handkerchief.  As  it  was, 
he  sat  lost  in  thought,  apparently  quite  unconscious  of  the  an 
noyance,  or  of  the  keen  glances  which  the  servant  now  and 
then  cast  upon  him. 

"  It  will  do,"  thought  Jacob,  gathering  the  cluster  up  in  his 
hand,  with  an  eager  clutch ;  and  while  he  seemed  looking  around 
for  something  to  employ  himself  with,  those  keen  grey  eyes 
were  bent  upon  Leicester's  face.  "  I  was  sure  of  it ;  he  has 
almost  made  up  his  mind.  Let  me  hear  the  tone  of  his 
and  I  shall  know  how." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  181 

Jacob  had  not  long  to  wait.  After  a  reverie  that  was  dis 
turbed  by  many  an  anxious  thought,  Leicester  turned  in  his 
chair,  opened  the  little  travelling  desk,  and  began  to  write, 
pausing  now  and  then,  as  if  the  construction  of  his  language 
was  more  than  usually  difficult.  The  note  did  not  please  him. 
He  tore  it  in  two,  and  casting  the  fragments  upon  the  hearth 
rug,  selected  another  sheet  from  the  perfumed  paper  that  lay 
at  his  elbow.  This  time  he  was  more  successful.  The  note 
was  carefully  folded,  secured  with  a  little  antique  seal,  and  di 
rected  in  a  light  and  flowing  hand.  Leicester  smiled  as  he 
wrote,  and  his  face  brightened  as  if  he  had  flung  off  a  load  of 
annoying  doubts.  "  Here,"  he  said,  holding  the  letter  over  his 
shoulder  with  a  carelessness  that  was  certainly  more  than  half 
assumed,  "  take  this  note,  and  observe  how  it  is  received.  You 
understand  ?" 

Jacob  took  the  snowy  little  billet,  and  bent  over  it  wistfully, 
as  if  the  direction  could  only  be  made  out  with  great  effort. 

"Well!'7  said  Leicester,  turning  sharply  upon  him,  "what 
keeps  you  ?  Surely  you  understand  enough  to  make  out  the 
address  ?" 

"Well,  yes!"  answered  Jacob,  holding  the  note  at  arm's 
length,  and  eyeing  it  askance  ;  "  it's  rather  too  fine,  that  are 
handwriting;  but  then  I  can  manage  to  cipher  it  out  if  you  give 
me  time  enough." 

"  Very  well — you  have  had  time  enough.  Go!  and  remem 
ber  to  observe  all  that  passes  when  you  deliver  it." 

Jacob  took  up  his  drab  beaver,  planted  it  firmly  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  disappeared,  holding  the  note  between  his 
thumb  and  finger. 

While  our  friend  Jacob  is  making  his  way  up  town,  we  will 
precede  him,  and  enter  the  pretty  cottage  which,  with  its  fairy 
garden,  has  before  been  an  object  of  description. 

In  the  parlor  of  this  beautiful  but  monotonous  dwelling  sat 
Florence  Craft.  Cold  as  it  was  becoming,  she  still  wore  the 
pretty  morning  dress  of  fine  India  muslin,  with  its  profusion  of 
soft  lace,  but  over  it  was  a  scarf  of  scarlet  cashmere,  that  gave 


182  FASHION      AND      FAMINE, 

to  her  cheek  its  rosy  shadow,  as  a  crimson  Camilla  sometimes 
casts  a  trace  of  its  presence  on  the  marble  urn  against  which  it 
falls.  But  for  this  warm  shadow  her  face  was  coldly  white, 
and  even  traced  with  mournful  lines,  as  if  she  had  been  suffer 
ing  from  illness  or  some  grief  unnatural  to  her  youth,  and 
weighing  sadly  upon-  her  gentle  nature.  Her  soft  brown  eyes 
seemed  misty  and  dulled  by  habitual  tears,  and  the  long  curl 
ing  lashes  flung  a  deeper  shadow  on  the  cheek  just  beneath ; 
for  a  faint  circle,  such  as  .disease  or  grief  often  pencils,  was  be 
coming  definitely  marked  around  those  sad  and  beautiful  eyes. 
The  imprint  of  many  a  heavy  heart-ache  might  have  been  read 
in  those  shadowy  circles,  and  the  paler  redness  of  a  mouth  that 
smiled  still — but  oh,  how  mournfully! 

Florence  sat  by  a  sofa-table,  one  foot,  too  small  now  for  the 
satin  slipper  that  had  so  beautifully  defined  its  proportions  a 
little  while  before,  rested  upon  the  richly  carved  supporter.  She 
had  become  painfully  fragile,  and  the  folds  of  her  dress  fell  around 
her  drooping  form  like  a  white  cloud,  so  transparent  that  but 
for  the  red  scarf,  you  might  have  defined  the  slender  arms  and 
marble  neck  underneath  with  startling  distinctness.  She  was 
occupied  with  her  drawing  lesson,  but  even  the  pencil  seemed 
too  heavy  for  the  slender  and  waxen  fingers  that  guided  it;  and 
to  one  that  undertsood  the  signification,  there  was  something 
ominous  in  the  bright,  feverish  tinge  that  spread  over  her  palm, 
as  if  she  had  been  crushing  roses  in  that  little  hand,  and  might 
not  hope  to  wash  the  stain  away. 

Robert  Otis  leaned  over  the  unhappy  girl.  He  too  was 
changed,  but  not  like  her.  -  The  flesh  had  not  wasted  from  his 
limbs ;  the  fire  of  youth  had  not  burned  out  prematurely  in  those 
bright  eyes;  but  his  look  was  unsettled,  restless,  nay,  sometimes 
wild.  His  very  smile  was  hurried  and  passed  quickly  away;  all 
its  soft,  mellow  warmth  was  gone.  The  change  was  different, 
but  terribly  perceptible  both  in  the  youth  and  the  young  girl. 

It  was  no  boyish  passion  which  marked  the  features  of  that 
noble  face  as  it  bent  lower  and  lower  over  the  drooping  girl. 
Tenderness,  keen,  deep*  sympathy  was  there,  but  none  of  the 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  183 

ardent  feeling  that  had  fired  his  whole  being  when  only  the 
semblance  of  that  beautiful  form  first  met  his  eye.  If  Robert 
Otis  loved  Florence  Craft,  it  was  with  the  tender  earnestness  of 
a  brother,  not  with  the  fiery  ardor  natural  to  his  age  and  tem 
perament. 

"  You  seem  tired;  how  your  hand  trembles  ;  rest  awhile, 
Miss  Craft.  This  stooping  posture  must  be  oppressive,"  said 
Robert,  gently  attempting  to  remove  the  pencil  from  the  fair 
hand  that  could  really  guide  it  no  longer. 

"No,  no,"  said  Florence,  raising  her  eyes  with  a  sad  smile, 
"  you  do  not  give  lessons  every  day,  now,  and  we  must  improve 
the  time.  When  Mr.  Leicester  comes  he  should  find  me  quite 
an  artist,  I  must  not  disgrace  you  with  my  idleness.  He  would 
feel  hurt  if  we  did  not  meet  his  expectations.  Don't  you  think 
so  ?" 

"  Perhaps,  I  cannot  exactly  tell.  Mr.  Leicester  is  so. unlike 
other  men,  it  is  difficult  to  decide  what  his  wishes  really  are," 
said  Robert.  "  He  certainly  did  take  great  interest  in  your 
progress  at  first  1" 

"  And  now  that  interest  has  ceased  !  Is  that  what  you 
mean  to  say,  Robert  ?"  questioned  the  young  girl,  and  even  the 
scarlet  reflection  of  her  shawl  failed  to  relieve  the  deadly  pale 
ness  of  her  countenance. 

"  No,  I  did  not  say  that  !"  answered  Robert,  gently,  "he 
questions  me  of  your  progress  often." 

Florence  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  now  there  was  something 
more  than  a  scarlet  reflection  on  her  cheek. 

"But  then,"  continued  Robert,  "he  contents  himself  with 
questions;  he  does  not  come  to  witness  the  progress  you  are  ma 
king." 

"  You  have  noticed  it,  then  ? — you  have  thought  it  strange  ?" 
said  Florence,  while  the  red  upon  her  cheek  began  to  burn  pain 
fully,  and  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes.  "  Yet  you  do  not  know — 
you  cannot  even  guess  how  hard  this  is  to  bear  !" 

"Perhaps  I  can  guess,"  answered  Robert,  casting  down  his 
eyes  and  trembling  visibly. 


184  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

Florence  started  from  her  chair,  arid  stood  upright.  In  the 
violence  of  her  agitation,  she  lost  the  languid,  willowy  stoop  of 
frame  that  had  become  habitual.  For  a  moment  the  full  ener 
gies  of  her  nature  were  lighted  up,  stung  into  sharp  vitality  by 
surprise  and  terror.  But  she  did  not  speak,  she  only  stood  up 
right  a  single  moment,  and  then  sunk  to  the  couch  helplessly  and 
sobbing  like  a  child.  Robert  knelt  by  her  greatly  agitated,  for 
he  had  anticipated  no  such  violent  effect  from  his  words. 

"Do  not  weep,  Miss  Craft,  I  did  not  intend  to  pain  you  thus. 
What  have  I  said  ? — what  have  I  done  that  it  should  bring  so 
much  grief  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  whispered  in  a  low  voice, 
while  the  lashes  fell  over  her  eyes,  sweeping  the  tears  downward 
in  fresh  gushes.  "  What  was  it  that  you  said  ?  Something 
that  you  could  guess,  was  not  that  it  ?  Now  tell  me  all  you 
guess.  What  is  it  that  you  think  ?" 

"  Nothing  that  should  overwhelm  you  in  this  manner,"  said 
Robert,  struggling  against  the  convictions  her  agitation  was  cal 
culated  to  produce.  "  I  thought — I  have  long  thought — that 
you  were  greatly  attached  to  Mr.  Leicester,  more  than  a  ward 
usually  is  to  her  guardian." 

"  You  are  with  him  so  much — surely  you  did  not  think  that 
my  love — for  I'  do  not  deny  it,  Robert — was  unwelcome  or  un 
sought  ?" 

Robert  hesitated;  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  give  ut 
terance  to  his  thoughts. 

"  No,  I  did  not  think  that,"  he  said;  "  but  Mr.  Leicester  is 
a  strange  man,  so  much  older  than  we  are — so  much^wiser.  I 
can  fathom  neither  his  motives  nor  his  feelings." 

"And  I — I  have  felt  this  so  often — that  is,  of  late,"  said 
Florence,  "at  times  I  am  almost  afraid  of  him,  and  yet  this  very 
fear  has  its  fascination." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Robert,  thoughtless  of  the  meaning  that 
might  be  given  to  his  words,  "  the  bird  shivers  with  fear  even 
as  the  serpent  lures  it,  and  in  this  lies  some  subtle  mystery;  for 
while  the  poor  thing  seems  to  know  its  danger,  th#  knowledge 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  185 

yields  it  no  power  of  resistance.  Here  lies  the  serpent  with  its 
eyes  burning  and  its  jaws  apart,  exposing  all  its  venom  ;  but 
the  spell  works  in  spite  of  this." 

"  Hush  !  hush  1"  said  Florence,  with  a  look  of  terror,  "  this 
is  a  cruel  comparison.  It  makes  me  shudder  !" 

"I  did  not  intend  it  as  a  comparison,"  answered  Robert. 
"  With  you  it  can  never  be  one,  and  with  me  such  ideas  would 
be  very  ungrateful,  applied  to  my  oldest  friend.  I  wish  to 
heaven,  no  thought  against  him  would  ever  enter  my  head 
again." 

"  Conquer  them — never  breathe  them  even  to  yourself  !"  said 
Florence,  with  sudden  impetuosity.  "They  have  killed  me — 
those  weary,  base  suspicions — not  mine  !  not  mine  !  Oh,  I  am 
so  thankful  that  they  were  not  formed  in  my  heart  ? — they 
were  whispered  to  me — forced  on  me.  I  would  not  believe 
them — but  the  evil  thing  is  here.  I  have  no  strength  to  cast 
it  out  alone,  and  he  never  conies  to  help  me." 

"  Perhaps  he  does  not  know  how  deeply  you  feel  for  him," 
said  Robert,  anxious  to  console  her. 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  leaning  forward,  shrouded  her 
eyes  with  one  hand.  After  a  while,  she  turned  her  gaze  upon 
Robert,  and  addressed  him  more  quietly. 

"  You  must  not  think  ill  of  him,"  she  said,  with  a  dim  smile. 
"  See  what  suspicion  and  pining  thoughts  can  do,  when  they  have 
crept  into  the  heart."  The  poor  girl  drew  up  the  muslin  sleeve 
from  her  arm,  and  Robert  was  startled  to  see  how  greatly  the 
delicate  limb  was  attenuated.  Tears  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
bending  down  he  touched  the  snowy  wrist  with  his  lips.  "  I 
must  tell  him  that  you  are  ill — that  you  suffer — surely  he  can 
not  dream  of  this  !" 

"Not  yet— we  must  not  importune  him  ;  besides,  I  am  becom 
ing  used  to  this  desolate  feeling.  You  will  come  oftener  now. 
It  is  something  to  know  that  he  has  been  near  you — touched 
your  clothes — held  your  hand — the  atmosphere  of  his  presence 
hangs  about  your  very  -garments,  and  does  me  good.  This 
seems  childish,  does  it  not  ?  but  it  is  true.  Sometime,  when  you 


186  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

have  given  up  your  being  to  another,  this  will  appear  less  strange. 
Oh,  how  I  sometimes  envy  you  1" 

"  I  might  have  loved,  young  as  you  think  me,  even  as  you 
love  this  man,"  said  Robert,  annoyed,  spite  of  his  sympa 
thy,  by  the  words  which  she  had  unconsciously  applied  to  his 
youth  ;  "  but  that  which  has  wounded  you,  saved  me.  You  do 
not  know,  Miss  Craft,  all  that  I  have  felt  since  the  evening  when 
Mr.  Leicester  brought  me  here.  What  I  saw  that  night 
awoke  me  from  the  first  sweet  dream  of  passion  I  ever  knew. 
I  could  have,  loved  you  then,  even  as  you  loved  Mr.  Leicester." 
.  "Me!"  said  Florence,  and  a  momentary  smile  lighted  her 
eyes — as  if  the  very  thought  of  his  young  love  amused  her,  sad 
as  she  was  ;  "how  strange  !  to  me  you  seemed  so  young  and 
embarrassed — a  mere  boy — now " 

"  Now  I  am  changed,  you  would  say — now  I  am  a  different 
person — older,  firmer,  more  self-possessed  ;  yet  it  is  only  a  few 
months  ago.  I  may  seem  older  and  less  timid — for  in  this  little 
time  I  have  thought  and  suffered — but  then,  I  was  more  worthy 
of  your  love,  for  I  had  not  learned  to  distrust  my  oldest  friend. 
Like  you,  I  have  struggled  against  suspicion — and  like  yon,  I 
have  failed  to  cast  it  forth.  It  has  withered  your  gentle  nat  re 
— mine  it  has  embittered." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  had  not  my  temptation.  It  was  not  his  own 
mother  who  poisoned  your  mind  against  him." 

"  His  mother  ?  I  did  not  know  that  either  of  his  parents 
were  living." 

"  That  quiet,  cold  lady  ;  the  woman  whom  you  have  seen 
here  !  Did  he  never  tell  you  that  she  was  his  mother  ?" 

"  He  never  even  hinted  it  !"  said  Robert,  greatly  surprised. 

"  She  told  me  so  with  her  own  lips  :  she  warned  me  against 
him — she,  his  mother." 

"  Indeed  I"  said  Robert,  thoughtfully.  "  Yet  with  what  cold 
ness  she  received  him  !" 

"  It  is  not  her  nature,"  answered  Florence,  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  grateful  tears.  "  To  me,  her  kindness  has  been  un 
varied  ;  there  is  somefhing  almost  holy  in  her  calm,  sweet  affec- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  18? 

tion  :  but  for  this  I  had  not  been  so  unhappy.  Had  I  detected 
prejudice,  temper,  anything  selfish  mingled  with  her  words,  they 
would  never  have  reached  my  heart ;  but  now,  I  cannot  turn 
from  her.  With  all  her  stately  coldness  she  had  something  of 
his  power — I  dare  not  doubt  her.  But  I  will  not  believe  the 
warning  she  gave  me." 

Robert  walked  up  and  down  the  room.     New  and  stern 
thoughts  were  making  their  way  in  his  mind.     Gratitude  is  a  I 
powerful  feeling,  but  it  possesses  none  of  the  infatuation  and  ' 
blindness  which  characterizes  the  grand  passion.     Suspicions 
that  had  haunted  his  conscience  like  crimes,  were  beginning  to 
shape  themselves  into  stubborn  facts.     Still  he  would  not  yield 
to  them.     Like  the  gentle  girl,  drooping  before  his  eyes,  he  , 
aared  not  believe  anything  against  William  Leicester.     Humil-  I 
iation,  nay,  almost  ruin,  lay  in  the  thought. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

A     WEDDING     FORESHADOWED. 

When  her  heart  was  all  dreary  and  burdened  with  fears, 

Hope  came  like  a  seraph  and  touched  it  with  light, 
Like  sunshine  or  rain-drops  it  kindled  her  tears 

Till  they  trembled  like  stars  'mid  her  soul's  quick  delight. 

FLORENCE  had  taken  up  her  pencil  again,  but  still  remained 
inactive,  gazing  wistfully  through  the  lace  curtains,  at  the  little 
fountain  flinging  up  a  storm  of  spray  amid  flowers  gorgeous 
with  autumn  tints  and  the  crisp  brown  that  had  settled  on  the 
little  grass-plat.     Notwithstanding  the  dahlias  were  in  a  glow  V 
of  rich  tints,  and  the  chrysanthemums  sheeted  with  white,  rosy,    j 
and  golden  blossoms,  there  was  a  tinge  of  decay  upon  the  leaves, 
very  beautiful,   but  always  productive   of  mournful   feelings 
Florence  had  felt  this  influence  more  than  usual  that  morning. 


188  FASHION      AND      FAMINE 

and  now  to  her  excited  nerves  there  was  something  in  the  glow 
of  those  flowers,  and  the  soft  rush  of  water-drops,  that  made 
her  heart  sink. 

If  the  autumn  and  summer  had  been  so  dreary,  with  all  the 
warmth  and  brightness  of  sunshine  and  blossoms,  what  had  the 
winter  of  promise  to  her  ?  Spite  of  herself  she  looked  down  to 
the  thin,  white  hand  that  lay  so  listlessly  on  the  paper,  and 
gazed  on  it  till  tears  swelled  once  more  against  those  half-closed 
eye-lids.  "  How  desolate  to  be  buried  in  the  winter,  and  away 

from  all "  These  were  the  thoughts  that  arose  in  that  young 

heart.  The  objects  that  gave  rise  to  them  were  flowers,  autumn 
flowers,  the  richest  and  most  beautiful  things  on  earth.  Thus 
it  often  happens  in  life,  that  lovely  things  awake  our  most  pain 
ful  and  bitter  feelings,  either  by  a  mocking  contrast  with  the 
sorrow  that  is  within  us,  or  because  they  are  associated  with  the 
memory  of  wasted  happiness. 

As  Florence  sat  gazing  upon  the  half  veiled  splendor  of  the 
garden  flowers,  she  saw  a  man  open  the  little  gate,  and  move 
with  a  slow,  heavy  step  toward  the  door.  The  face  was  unfa 
miliar,  and  the  fact  of  any  strange  person  seeking  that  dwelling 
was  rare  enough  to  excite  some  nervous  trepidation  in  a  young 
and  fragile  creature  like  Florence. 

"  There  is  some  one  coming,"  she  said,  addressing  Robert,  who 
was  thoughtfully  pacing  the  room,  with  a  tone  and  look  of  alarm 
quite  disproportioned  to  the  occasion.  "  Will  you  go  to  the  door, 
I  believe  every  one  is  out  except  us  ?" 

Robert  shook  off  the  train  of  thought  that  had  made  him 
unconscious  of  the  heavy  footsteps  now  plainly  heard  in  the 
veranda,  and  went  to  the  door. 

Jacob  Strong  did  not  seem  in  the  least  embarrassed,  though 
nothing  could  be  supposed  further  from  his  thoughts  than  an 
encounter  with  the  young  man  in  that  place.  Perhaps  he  lost 
something  of  the  abruptness  unconsciously  maintained  during 
his  walk,  for  his  mien  instantly  assumed  a  loose,  almost  slouching 
carelessness,  such  as  had  always  characterized  it  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Leicester  or  his  protege. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  189 

"Well,  how  do  you  do,  MrrOtis?  I  didn't  just  expect  to 
find  you  here  I  Hain't  got  much  to  do  down  at  the  store,  I 
reckon  ?" 

"  Never  mind  that,  Mr.  Strong,"  answered  the  youth,  good- 
humoredly,  "  but  tell  me  what  brought  you  here.  Some  mes 
sage  from  Mr.  Leicester,  ha!" 

"  Well,  now,  you  do  beat  all  at  guessing,"  answered  Jacob, 
drawing  forth  the  billet-doux  with  which  he  was  charged. 
"  Ain't  there  a  young  gal  a-living  here,  Miss  Flo — Florence 
Craft  ?  If  that  ain't  the  name,  I  can't  cipher  it  out  any  how !" 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  name — Miss  Craft  does  live  here,"  said 
Robert.  "  Let  me  have  the  note — I  will  deliver  it." 

"  Not  as  you  know  on,  Mr.  Otis,"  replied  Jacob,  with  a  look 
of  shrewd  determination.  "  Mr.  Leicester  told  me  to  give  this 
ere  little  concern  into  the  gal's  own  hand,  and  I  always  obey 
orders  though  I  break  owners.  Jest  be  kind  enough  to  show 
me  where  the  young  critter  is,  and  Fit  do  my  errand  and  back 
again  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  Very  well,  come  this  way;  Miss  Craft  will  receive  the  note 
herself." 

Florence  was  standing  near  the  window,  her  bright,  eager 
eyes  were  turned  upon  the  door,  she  had  overheard  Leicester's 
name,  and  it  thrilled  through  every  nerve  of  her  body. 

Jacob  entered  with  his  usual  heavy  indifference.  He  looked 
a  moment  at  the  young  girl,  and  then  held  out  the  note. 
Robert  fancied  that  a  shade  of  feeling  swept  over  that  usually 
composed  face,  but  the  lace  curtains  were  waving  softly  to  a 
current  of  air  let  in  through  the  open  doors,  and  it  might  be 
ttie  transient  shadows  thus  flung  upon  his  face.  Still  there  was 
something  keen  and  intelligent  in  the  glance  with  which  Jacob 
regarded  the  young  girl  while  she  bent  over  the  note. 

Suddenly  he  bent  those  keen,  grey  eyes,  now  full  of  mean 
ing,  and  almost  stern  in  their  searching  power,  upon  the  youth 
nimself.  Robert  grew  restless  beneath  that  strict  scrutiny,  the 
color  mounted  to  his  forehead,  and  as  a'relief  he  turned  toward 
Florence 


190  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

She  was  busy  reading  the  note,  apparently  unconscious  of 
the  person,  but  oh,  how  wildly  beautiful  her  face  had  become  ! 
Her  eyes  absolutely  sparkled  through  the  drooping  lashes  ;  her 
small  mouth  was  parted  in  a  glowing  smile — you  could  see  the 
pearly  edges  of  her  teeth  behind  the  bright  red  of  lips  that  seemed 
just  bathed  in  wine.  She  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  not  vio 
lently,  but  a  blissful  shiver,  like  that  which  stirs  a  leaf  at  noon 
day,  in  the  calm  summer  time,  wandered  over  her  delicate 
frame.  Twice — three  times,  she  read  the  note,  and  then  her 
soft  eyes  were  uplifted  and  turned  upon  Robert,  in  all  theii 
glorious  joy. 

"  See  !"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  one  burst  of  melody — 
"  Oh,  what  ingrates  we  have  been  to  doubt  him  1"  In  her 
bright  triumph,  she  held  forth  the  note,  but  as  Robert  advanced 
to  receive  it,  she  drew  back.  "I  had  forgotten,"  she  said,  "  I 
alone  was  to  know  it  ;  but  you  can  g'iess — you  .Can  see  how 
happy  it  has  made  me." 

Robert  Otis  turned  away,  somewhat  annoyed  by  this  half 
confidence.  Florence,  without  heeding  this,  sat  down  by  the 
table,  and,  with  the  open  note  before  her,  prepared  to  answer 
it,  but  her  excitement  was  too  eager — her  hand  too  unsteady. 
After  several  vain  efforts,  she  took  the  note  and  ran  up  stairs. 

Tfcus  Jacob  and  Robert  were  left  alone  together.  The  youth, 
possessed  by  his  own  thoughts,  seemed  quite  unconscious  of  the 
companionship  forced  upon  him.  He  sat  dow^i  on  the  couch  which 
Florence  had  occupied,  and,  leaning  upon  the  table,  supported 
his  forehead  with  one  hand.  Jacob  stood  m  his  old  place,  re 
garding  the  varied  expressions  that  came  and  went  on  that 
young  face.  His  own  rude  features  were  greatly  disturbed,  and 
at  this  moment  bore  a  look  that  approached  to  anguish.  Twice 
he  moved,  as^if  to  approach  Robert — and  then  fell  back  irreso 
lute  ;  but  at  last,  he  strode  forward,  and  before  the  youth  was 
aware  of  the  movement,  a  hand  lay  heavily  uDOn  his  shoulder. 

"  So  you  love  her,  my  boy  ?" 

Robert  started.  The  drawling  tone,  the  rude  Down  East 
enunciation  was  gone.  The  man  who  stood  bt*f(va  him 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  191 

seemed  to  have  changed  his  identity.  Rude  and  uncouth  he 
certainly  was — but  even  in  this,  there  was  something  imposing. 
Robert  looked  at  him  with  parted  lips  and  wondering  eyes — 
there  was  something  even  of  awe  in  his  astonishment. 

"Tell  me,  boy,"  continued  Jacob,  and  his  voice  was  full  of 
tenderness — "  tell  me,  is.  it  love  for  this  girl,  that  makes  you 
thoughtful  ?  Are  you  jealous  of  William  Leicester  ?" 

Robert  lost  all  presence  of  mind — he  did  not  answer — but 
sat  motionless,  with  his  eyes  turned  upon  the  changed  face  bend 
ing  close  to  his. 

"  Will  you  not  speak  to  me,  Robert  Otis  ?  You  may — you 
should,  for  I  am  an  honest  man." 

"  I  believe  you  are  !"  said  Robert,  starting  up  and  reaching 
forth  his  hand — "  I  know  that  you  are,  for  my  heart  leaps  to 
ward  you.  What  was  the  question?  I  will  answer  it  now. 
Did  you  ask  if  I  loved  Florence  Craft  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  it — I  would  know  ;  otherwise  events  may 
shape  themselves  unluckily.  I  trust,  Robert,  that  in  this  you 
have  escaped  the  snare." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  but  can  answer  your  question  a 
great  deal  better  than  I  could  have  done  three  days  ago.  I  do 
love  Miss  Craft  as  it  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  love 
a  sister,  had  one  been  made  an  orphan  with  me  :  I  would  do  any 
thing  for  her,  sacrifice  anything  for  her.  Once  I  thought  this 
love,  but  now  I  know  better.  There  was  another  question — 
am  I  jealous  of  William  Leicester  ?  I  do  not  know  ;  my 
heart  sinks  when  I  see  them  together — I  cannot  force  myself  to 
wish  her  his  wife,  and  yet  this  repugnance  is  unaccountable  to 
myself.  He  is  my  friend — she  something  even  dearer  than  a 
sister  ;  but  my  very  soul  revolts  at  the  thought  of  their  union. 
It  was  this  that  made  me  thoughtful :  I  do  not  love  Florence 
in  your  meaning  of  the  word  ;  I  am  not  jealous  of  ^Mr.  Leices 
ter;  but  God  forgive  me  !  there  is  something  in  my  heart  that 
rises  up  against  him  !  There,  sir,  you  have  my  answer.  I  may 
be  imprudent — I  may  be  wrong  ;  but  it  cannot  be  helped 
now." 


192          FASHION  AND   FAMINE. 

"You  have  been  neither  imprudent  nor  wrong,"  answered 
Jacob,  laying  his  hand  on  the  bent  head  of  the  youth.  "I  am 
a  plain  man,  but  you  will  find  in  me  a  safer  counsellor  than  you 
imagine — a  wiser  one — though  not  more  sincere — than  your  good 
aunt." 

"Then  you  know  my  aunt?"  cried  Robert,  profoundly 
astonished. 

"It  would  have  been  well  had  you  confided  even  in  her,  on 
Thanksgiving  night,  when  you  were  so  near  confessing  the  diffi 
culties  that  seem  so  terrible  to  you.  A  few  words  then,  might 
have  relieved  all  your  troubles." 

"  Then  Mr.  Leicester  has  told — has  betrayed  me  to — to  his 
servant,  I  would  not  have  believed  it !"  Robert  grew  pale  as  he 
spoke  ;  there  was  shame  and  terror  in  his  face  ;  deep  bitterness 
in  his  tone  ;  he  was  suffering  the  keen  pangs  which  a  first  proof 
of  treachery  brings  to  youth. 

"  No,  you  wrong  Mr.  Leicester  there — he  has  not  betrayed 
you,  never  will,  probably,  nor  do  I  know  the  exact  nature  of 
your  anxieties." 

"But  who  are  you  then?  An  hour  ago  I  could  have 
answered  this  question,  or  thought  so.  Now,  you  bewilder  me  ; 
I  can  scarcely  recognize  any  look  or  tone  about  you — which  is 
the  artificial  ?  which  the  real  ?" 

"  Both  are  real ;  I  was  what  you  have  hitherto  seen  me, 
years  ago.  I  am  what  you  see  now  ;  but  I  can  at  will  throw 
off  the  present  and  identify  myself  with  the  past.  You  see, 
Robert  Otis,  I  give  confidence  when  I  ask  it — a  breath  of  what 
you  have  seen  or  heard  to-day,  repeated  to  Mr.  Leicester,  would 
send  me  from  his  service.  But  I  do  not  fear  to  trust  you  !" 

"  There  is  no  cause  of  fear — I  never  betrayed  anything  in  my 
life — only  convince  me  that  you  mean  no  evil  to  him." 

"  I  only  mean  to  prevent  evil !   and  I  will !" 

"All  this  perplexes  me,"  said  Robert,  raising  one  hand  to  his 
forehead — "I  seem  to  have  known  you  many  years  ;  my  heart 
warms  toward  you  as  it  never  did  to  any  one  but  my  aunt." 

"  That  is  right ;  an  honest  heart  seldom  betrays  itself.     But 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  193 

hush  !  the  young  lady  is  coming  ;  God  help  her,  she  loves  that 
man." 

"  It  is  worship — idolatry — not  love  ;  that  seems  but  a  feeble 
word  5  it  gives  one  the  heart-ache  to  witness  its  ravages  on  her 
sweet  person." 

"  And  does  she  feel  so  much  ?"  said  Jacob,  with  emotion. 

Before  Robert  could  answer,  the  light  step  of  Florence  was 
heard  on  the  stairs  •  when  she  entered  the  room,  Jacob  stood 
near  the  window,  holding  Ms  hat  awkwardly  between  both 
hands,  and  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor. 

"You  will  give  this  to  Mr.  Leicester,"  she  said,  still  radiant 
and  beautiful  with  happiness,  placing  a  note  in  Jacob's  hand — 
"  here,  is  something  for  yourself,  I  only  wish  it  could  make  you 
as  happy  as — as — that  it  may  be  of  use,  I  mean."  Blushing 
and  hesitating  thus  in  her  speech,  she  placed  a  small  gold  coin 
upon  the  note.  Poor  girl,  it  was  a  pocket-piece  given  by  her 
father,  but  in  her  wild  gratitude  she  would  have  cast  thousands 
upon  the  man  whose  coming  had  brought  so  much  happiness. 

Jacob  received  the  coin,  looked  at  her  earnestly  for  a  moment, 
half  extended  his  hand,  and  then  thrust  it  into  his  pocket. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  a  thousand  times — I  will  do  the  errand 
right  off  1"  and  putting  on  his  hat,  Jacob  strode  from  the  house, 
muttering,  as  he  cast  a  hurried  glance  around  the  little  garden, 
"  It  seems  like  shooting  a  robin  on  her  nest — I  must  think  it  all 
over  again." 

Robert  would  have  followed  Jacob  Strong,  for  his  mind  was 
in  tumult,  and  he  panted  for  some  more  perfect  elucidation  of 
the  mystery  that  surrounded  this  singular  man.  But  Florence 
laid  her  hand  gently  on  his  arm,  and  drew  him  into  the  window 
recess  :  her  face  was  bright  with  smiles  and  bathed  in  blushes. 
"  You  were  ready  to  go  without  wishing  me  joy,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
yet  you  must  have  guessed  what  was  in  that  precious,  precious 
note  !" 

Robert  felt  a  strange  thrill  creep  through  his  frame.  He 
turned  his  eyes  from  the  soft  orbs  looking  into  his,  for  their 
brilliancy  pained  him. 

9 


194          FASHION   AND   FAMINE, 

"No,"  he  said,  almost  bitterly,  "  I  cannot  guess — perhaps  I 
do  not  care  to  guess  !" 

"  Oh,  Robert !  you  do  not  know  what  happiness  is  j  no  human 
being  ever  was  so  happy  before.  How  cold — how  calm  you 
are  !  You  could  feel  for  me  when  I  was  miserable,  but  now — 
now  it  is  wrong  :  he  charged  me  to  keep  it  secret,  but  my  heart 
is  so  full,  Robert  ;  stoop  and  let  me  whisper  it — tell  nobody, 
he  would  be  very  angry — but  this  week  we  are  to  be  married  !" 

"  Now/'  said  Robert,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  and  speaking  in 
i  voice  so  calm  that  it  seemed  like  prophecy — "now  I  feel  for 
you  more  than  ever." 

The  little,  eager  hand  fell  from  his  arm,  and  in  a  voice  that 
thrilled  with  disappointment,  Florence  said, 

"  Then  you  will  not  wish  me  joy  I" 

Robert  took  her  hand,  grasped  it  a  moment  in  his,  and  fling 
ing  aside  the  cloud  of  lace  that  had  fallen  over  them,  left  the 
room.  Florence  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  and  while  he  was 
in  sight  a  shade  of  sadness  hung  upon  her  sweet  face — but  her 
happiness  was  too  perfect  even  for  this  little  shadow  to  visit  it 
more  than  a  moment.  She  sunk  upon  an  ottoman  in  the  recess. 
and,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  autumn  flowers  without,  sub 
sided  into  a  reverie,  the  sweetest,  the  brightest  that  ever  fell 
upon  a  youthful  heart. 


CHAPTER   XY. 

THE   MOTHER'S  APPEAL. 

Wrong  to  one's  self  but  wrongs  the  world; 

God  linketh  soul  so  close  to  soul, 
That  germs  of  evil,  once  unfurled, 

Spread  through  the  life  and  mock  control. 

PEN,  ink,  and  paper  lay  upon  the  table.     The  curtains  were 
flung  back,  admitting  'the  broad  sunshine  that  revealed  more 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  195 

clearly  than  the  usual  soft  twilight  with  which  Leicester  was  in 
the  habit  of  enveloping  himself,  the  lines  which  time  and  passion 
sometimes  allowed  to  run  wild,  sometimes  curbed  with  an  iron 
will,  had  left  on  his  handsome  features.  Papers  were,  on  the 
table,  not  letters,  but  scraps  that  bore  a  business  aspect,  some 
half  printed,  others  without  signature,  but  still  in  legal  form, 
as  notes  of  hand  or  checks  are  given. 

Leicester  took  one  of  these  checks — a  printed  blank — and 
gazed  on  it  some  moments  with  a  fixed  and  thoughtful  scrutiny 
He  laid  it  gently  down,  took  up  a  pen,  and  held  the  drop  of 
ink  on  its  point  up  to  the  light,  as  if  even  the  color  were  an  ob 
ject  of  interest.  He  wrote  a  word  or  two,  merely  filling  up 
the  blank  before  him,  but  simple  as  the  act  seemed,  that  hand, 
usually  firm  as  marble,  quivered  on  the  paper,  imperceptibly,  it 
is  true,  but  enough  to  render  the  words  unsteady.  His  face, 
too,  was  fiercely  pale,  if  I  may  use  the  term,  for  there  was 
something  in  the  expression  of  those  features  that  sent  a  sort 
of  hard  glow  through  their  whiteness.  It  was  the  glow  of  a 
desperate  will  mastering  fear. 

With  a  quick  and  scornful  quiver  of  the  lip,  he  tore  the  half- 
filled  check  in  twain,  and  cast  the  fragments  into  the  fire. 
"  Am  I  growing  old  ?"  he  said  aloud,  "  or  is  this  pure  cow 
ardice  ?  Fear! — what  have  I  to  fear?"  he  continued,  hushing 
his  voice.  "  It  cannot  be  brought  back  to  me.  A  chain  that 
has  grown,  link  by  link,  for  years,  will  not  break  with  any  com 
mon  wrench.  Still,  if  it  could  be  avoided,  the  boy  loves  me  ! — 
well,  and  have  not  others  loved  me  ?  Of  what  use  is  affection, 
if  it  adds  nothing  to  one's  enjoyments  ?  If  the  old  planter  had 
left  my  pretty  Florence  the  property  at  once,  why  then — but 
till  she  is  of  age — that  is  almost  two  years — till  she  is  of  age 
we  must  live." 

Half  in  thought,  half  in  words,  these  ideas  passed  through 
the  brain  and  upon  the  lip  of  William  Leicester.  When  his 
mind  was  once  made  up  to  the  performance  of  an  act,  it  seldom 
paused  even  to  excuse  a  sin  to  his  own  soul,  but  this  was  not 
exactly  a  question  of  right  and  wrong:  that  had  been  too  often 


• 


196  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

decided  with  his  conscience  to  admit  of  the  least  hesitation. 
There  was  peril  in  the  act  he  meditated — peril  to  himself — this 
made  his  brow  pale  and  his  .hand  unsteady.  During  a  whole 
life  of  fraud  and  evil-doing,  he  had  never  once  placed  himself 
within  the  grasp  ot  the  law.  His  instruments,  less  guilty,  and 
far  less  treacherous  than  himself,  had  often  suffered  for  crimes 
that  his  keen  intellect  had  suggested.  For  years  he  had  luxu 
riated  upon  the  fruit  of  iniquities  prompted  by  himself,  but  with 
which  his  personal  connection  could  never  be  proved.  But  for 
once  his  subtle  forethought  in  selecting  and  training  an  agent 
who  should  bear  the  responsibility  of  crime  while  he  reaped  the 
benefit,  had  failed.  The  time  had  arrived  when  Robert  Otis 
was,  if  ever,  to  become  useful  to  his  teacher.  But  evil  fruit  in 
that  warm,  generous  nature  had  been  slow  in  ripening.  With 
all  his  subtle  craft,  Leicester  dared  not  propose  the  fraud  which 
was  to  supply  him  with  means  for  two  years'  residence  in 
Europe 

Theie  was  something  in  the  boy  too  clear-sighted  and  prompt 
even  for  his  wily  influence,  and  now,  after  years  of  training 
worthy  of  Lucifer  himself,  Leicester,  for  the  first  time,  was 
afraid  to  trust  his  chosen  instrument.  Robert  might  be  de 
luded  into  wrong — might  innocently  become  his  victim,  but 
Leicester  despaired  of  making  him,  with  his  bright  intellect  and 
honorable  impulses,  the  principal  or  accomplice  of  an  act  such 
as  he  meditated. 

A  decanter  of  brandy  stood  upon  the  table — Leicester  filled 
a  goblet  and  half  drained  it.  This  in  no  way  disturbed  the 
pallor  of  his  countenance,  but  his  hand  grew  firm,  and  he  filled 
up  several  of  the  printed  checks  with  a  rapidity  that  betrayed 
the  misgivings  that  still  beset  him. 

He  examined  the  papers  attentively  after  they  were  written, 
and,  selecting  one,  laid  it  in  an  embroidered  letter-case  which 
he  took  from  his  bosom ;  the  others  he  placed  in  an  old  copy 
book  that  had  been  lying  open  before  him  all  the  time ;  it  was 
the  same  book  that  Robert  Otis  had  taken  from  his  aunt's 
stand-drawer  on  Thanksgiving  night. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  197 

When  these  arrangements  were  finished,  Leicester  drew  out  his 
watch,  and  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  some  one  that  he  expected. 

Again  he  opened  the  copy-book  and  compared  the  checks  with 
other  papers  it  contained.  The  scrutiny  seemed  to  satisfy  him, 
for  a  smile  gleamed  in  his  eyes  as  he  closed  the  book. 

Just  then,  Robert  Otis  came  in.  His  step  had  become  quiet, 
and  the  rosy  buoyancy  of  look  and  manner  that  had  been  so  in 
teresting  a  few  months  before,  was  entirely  gone.  There  was 
restraint — nay,  something  amounting  almost  to  dislike  in  his 
air  as  he  drew  a  seat  to  the  table. 

"  You  are  looking  pale,  Robert ;  has  anything  gone  amiss  at 
the  counting-house  ?"  said  Leicester,  regarding  his  visitor  with 
interest. 

"  Nothing  1" 

"  Are  you  ill  then  ?" 

"No,  I  am  well— quite  well  !" 

"  But  something  distresses  you ;  those  shadows  under  the  eye, 
the  rigid  lines  about  the  mouth — there  is  trouble  beneath  them. 
Tell  me  what  it  is — am  I  not  your  friend  ?" 

Robert  smiled  a  meaning,  bitter  smile,  that  seemed  strangely 
unnatural  on  those  fresh  lips.  Leicester  read  the  meaning  of 
that  silent  reproach,  and  it  warned  him  to  be  careful. 

"  Surely,"  he  said,  "  you  have  not  been  at  F street,  with 
out  your  friend  ? — you  have  not  indulged  in  high  play,  and  no 
prudent  person  to  guide  you  ?" 

"No  1"  said  Robert,  with  bitter  energy — "that  night  I  did 
play — how,  why,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  remember.  Those 
few  hours  of  wild  sin  were  enough — they  have  stained  my  soul 
— they  have  plunged  me  into  debt — they  have  made  me  ashamed 
to  look  a  good  man  in  the  face." 

"  But  I  warned,  I  cautioned  you  I" 

Robert  did  not  answer,  but  by  the  gleam  of  his  eyes  and  the 
quiver  of  his  lips,  you  could  see  that  words  of  fire  were  smo 
thered  in  his  heart. 

"  You  would  have  plunged  into  the  game  deeper  and  deeper, 
but  for  me. 


198  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Perhaps  I  should — it  was  a  wild  dream — I  was  mad — the 
very  memory  almost  makes  me  insane.  I,  so  young,  so  cher 
ished,  in  debt — and  how — to  what  amount  ?" 

"Enough — I  am  afraid,"  said  Leicester,  gently — "enough  to 
cover  that  pretty  farm,  and  all  the  bank  stock  your  nice  old 
aunt  has  scraped  together.  But  what  of  that  ? — she  is  in  no 
way  responsible,  and  gambling  debts  are  only  debts  of  honor — 
no  law  reaches  them  ?" 

"  I  will  not  make  sin  the  shelter  of  meanness,"  answered  the 
youth,  with  a  wild  flash  of  feeling  ;  "these  men  may  be  villains, 
but  they  did  not  force  themselves  upon  me.  I -sought  them  of 
my  own  free  choice  ;  no — I  cannot  say  that  either,  for  heaven 
knows  I  never  wished  to  enter  that  den  I" 

"  It  was  I  that  invited,  nay,  urged  you  1" 

"  Else  I  had  never  been  there  !" 

"  But  I  intended  it  as  a  warning — I  cautioned  you,  pleaded 
with  you." 

"  Yes,  I  remember — you  said  I  was  ignorant,  awkward,  a 
novice — Mr.  Leicester  ;  your  advice  was  like  a  jeer — your  cau 
tion  a  taunt ;  your  words  and  manner  were  at  variance  ;  I  played 
that  night,  but  not  of  my  own  free  will.  I  say  to  you,  it  was 
not  of  my  free  will  1" 

"Is  it  me,  upon  whom  your  words  reflect?"  said  Leicester, 
with  every  appearance  of  wounded  feeling. 

Robert  was  silent. 

"  Do  you  know,"  continued  Leicester,  in  that  deep,  musical 
tone,  that  was  sure  to  make  the  heart  thrill — "  do  you  know, 
Robert  Otis,  why  it  is  that  you  have  not  been  openly  exposed  ? 
— why  this  debt  has  not  been  demanded  long  ago  ?" 

"  Because  the  note  which  I  gave  is  not  yet  due  !" 

"  The  note — a  minor's  note — what  man  in  his  senses  would 
receive  a  thing  so  worthless  ?  No,  Robert — it  was  my  endorse 
ment  that  made  the  paper  valuable.  It  is  from  me,  your  old 
friend,  Robert,  that  the  money  must  come  to  meet  the  paper  at 
its  maturity." 

Tears  gushed  into  the  young  man's  eyes — he  held  out  his  hand 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  199 

across  the  table — Leicester  took  the  hand  and  pressed  it  very 
gently. 

•'  You  know,"  he  said,  "  this  note  becomes  due  almost  imme 
diately." 

"  I  know — I  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  every  day  has  left 
a  mark  on  my  heart ;  oh,  Mr.  Leicester,  how  I  have  suffered  1" 

"  I  will  not  say  that  suffering  is  the  inevitable  consequence 
of  a  wrong  act,  because  that  just  now  would  be  unkind,"  said 
Leicester,  with  a  soft  smile,  "but  hereafter  you  must  try  and 
remember  that  it  is  so." 

Robert  looked  upon  his  friend;  his  large  eyes  dilated,  and 
his  lips  began  to  tremble ;  you  could  see  that  his  heart  was 
smitten  to  the  core^  How  he  had  wrought  that  man  !  Tears 
of  generous  compunction  rushed  to  his  eyes. 

"  It  will  be  rather  difficult,  but  I  have  kept  this  thing  in  my 
mind,"  said  Leicester.  "  To-morrow  I  shall  draw  a  large  sum; 
a  portion  must  redeem  your  debt,  but  on  condition  that  you 
never  play  again!" 

Robert  shuddered.  "  Play  again !"  he  said,  and  tears  gushed 
through  the  fingers  which  he  had  pressed  to  his  eyes.  "  Do 
you  fear  that  a,  man  who  has  been  racked  would  of  his  own 
free  will  seek  the  wheel  again  ?  But  how  am  I  to  repay 
you  ?" 

"  Confide  in  me ;  trust  me.  Robert,  the  suspicions  that  were 
in  your  heart  but  an  hour  since — they  will  return." 

Robert  shook  his  head,  and  swept  the  tears  from  his  eyes. 

"  Xo,  no  !  even  then  I  hated  myself  for  them :  how  good, 
how  forgiving,  how  generous  you  are  !  I  am  young,  strong, 
have  energy.  In  time  this  shameful  debt  can  be  paid — but 
kindness  like  this — how  can  I  ever  return  that  ?" 

"  Oh  I  opportunities  for  gratitude  are  never  wanting:  the 
bird  we  tend  gives  back  music  in  return  for  care,  yet  what  can 
be  more  feeble  ?  Give  me  love,  Robert,  that  is  the  music  of  a 
young  heart — do  not  distrust  me  again  !" 

"  I  never  will  !" 

Leicester  wrung  the  youth's  hand.     They  both  arose. 


200  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  the  counting-room,  I  will  accompany 
you,"  he  said,  "my  business  must  be  negotiated  with  your 
firm." 

"  I  was  first  going  to  my  room,"  said  Robert. 

"  No  matter,  I  will  walk  slowly — by  the  way,  here  is  your  old 
copy-book ;  I  have  just  been  examining  it.  Those  were  pleasant 
evenings,  my  boy,  when  I  taught  you  how  to  use  the  pen." 

"Yes,"  said  Robert,  receiving  the  book,  "my  dear  aunt 
claims  the  old  copies  as  a  sort  of  heir-loom.  I  remembered' your 
wish  to  see  it,  and  so  took  it  quietly  away.  I  really  think  she 
would  not  have  given  it  up,  even  to  you." 

"  Then  she  did  not  know  when  you  took  it  ?" 

"  No,  I  had  forgotten  it,  and  so  stole  down  in  the  night. 
She  was  sound  asleep,  and  I  came  away  very  early  in  the  mor 
ning." 

"  Dear  old  lady,"  said  Leicester,  smiling  ;  "  you  must  return 
her  treasure  before  it  is  missed.  Stay  ;  fold  your  cloak  over  it. 
I  shall  see  you  again  directly." 

Leicester's  bed-chamber  communicated  with  another  small 
room,  which  was  used  as  a  dressing-closet.  From  some  caprice 
he  had  draped  the  entrance  with  silken  curtains  such  as  clouded 
the  windows.  Scarcely  had  he  left  the  room  when  this  drapery 
was  flung  aside,  revealing  the  door  which  had  evidently  stood 
open  during  his  interview  with  Robert  Otis. 

Jacob  Strong  closed  the  door  very  softly,  but  in  evident  haste; 
dropped  the  curtains  over  it,  and  taking  a  key  from  his  pocket, 
let  himself  out  of  the  bed-chamber.  He  overtook  Robert  Otis, 
a  few  paces  from  the  hotel,  and  touched  him  upon  the  shoul 
der. 

"  Mr.  Otis,  that  copy-book — my  master  wishes  to  see  it  again 
— will  you  send  it  back  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Robert,  producing  the  book.  "  But 
what  on  earth  can  he  want  it  for  ?" 

"  Come  back  with  me,  and  I  will  tell  you  !" 

"I  will,"  said  Robert;  "but  remember,  friend,  no  more 
hints  against  Mr.  Leicester,  I  cannot  listen  to  them," 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  201 

"  I  clon't  intend  to  hint  anything  against  him  now  I"  said 
Jacob,  dryly,  and  they  entered  the  hotel  together. 

Jacob  took  the  young  man  to  his  own  little  room,  and  the 
two  were  locked  in  together  more  than  an  hour.  When  the 
door  opened,  Jacob  appeared  composed  and  awkward  as  ever, 
but  a  powerful  change  had  fallen  upon  the  youth.  His  face 
was  not  only  pale,  but  a  look  of  wild  horror  disturbed  his  coun 
tenance. 

"  Yet  I  will  not  believe  it,"  he  said,  "  it  is  too  fiendish.  In 
what  have  I  ever  harmed  him  ?" 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  believe,  but  to  know.  Keep  out  of  the 
way  a  single  week,  it  can  do  harm  to  no  one." 

"  But  in  less  than  a  week  this  miserable  debt  must  be 
paid !" 

"  Then  pay  it  1" 

Robert  smiled  bitterly. 

"  How  ?  by  ruining  my  aunt  ?  Shall  I  ask  her  to  sell  the 
old  homestead  ?" 

"  She  would  do  it — she  would  give  up  the  last  penny  rather 
than  see  you  disgraced,  Robert  Otis  I" 

"  How  can  you  know  this  ?" 

"  I  do  know  it,  but  this  is  not  the  question.  Here  is  money 
to  pay  your  debt,  I  have  kept  it  in  my  pocket  for  weeks." 

Robert  did  not  reach  forth  his  hand  to  receive  the  roll 
of  bank-notes  held  toward  him,  for  surprise  held  him  motion 
less. 

"  Take  the  money,  it  is  the  exact  sum,"  said  Jacob,  in  a  voice 
that  carried  authority  with  it.  "I  ask  no  promise  that  you 
never  enter  another  gambling  hall — you  never  will  I" 

"  Never  !"  said  Robert,  receiving  the  money  ;  "  but  how — 
why  have  you  done  this  ?" 

"Ask  me  no  questions  now;  by-and-bye  you  will  know  all 
about  it ;  the  money  is  mine.  I  haye  earned  it  honestly  ;  as 
much  more  is  all  that  I  have  in  the  world.  No  thanks!  I 
never  could  bear  them,  besides  it  will  be  repaid  in  time  !" 

"  If  I  live,"  said  Robert,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

9* 


202  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  This  week,  remember — this  week  you  must  be  absent.  A 
visit  to  the  old  homestead,  anything  that  will  take  you  out  of 
town." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Robert,  "  it  can  certainly  do  no  harm." 

And  they  parted. 

Ada  Leicester  fled  from  the  keen  disappointment  which 
almost  crushed  her  for  a  time,  and  sought  to  drown  all  thought 
in  the  whirl  of  fashionable  life.  Her  reception  evenings  were 
splendid.  Beauty,  talent,  wit,  everything  that  could  charm  or 
dazzle  gathered  beneath  her  roof.  She  gave  herself  no  time  for 
grief.  Occasionally  a  thought  of  her  husband  would  sting  her 
into  fresh  bursts  of  excitement — sometimes  the  memory  of  her 
parents  and  her  child  passed  over  her  heart,  leaving  a  swell 
behind  like  that  which  followed  the  angels  when  they 
went  down  to  trouble  the  still  waters.  Her  wit  grew  more 
sparkling,  her  graceful  sarcasm  keener  than  ever  it  had  been. 
She  was  the  rage  that  season,  and  exhausted  her  rich  talent  in 
efforts  to  win  excitement.  She  did  not  hope  for  happiness  from 
the  homage  and  splendor  that  her  beauty  and  wealth  had 
'  secured  ;  excitement  was  all  she  asked. 

When  all  other  devices  for  amusement  failed  to  keep  up  the 
fever  of  her  artificial  life,  she  bethought  her  of  a  new  project. 
Her  talent,  her  wealth  must  achieve  something  more  brilliant 
than  had  yet  been  dreamed  of,  she  would  give  a  fancy  ball, 
something  far  more  picturesque  than  had  ever  been  known  in 
Saratoga  or  Newport. 

At  first  Ada  thought  of  this  ball  only  as  a  something  that 
should  pass  like  a  rocket  through  the  upper  ten  thousand  ;  but 
as  the  project  grew  upon  her,  she  resolved  to  make  it  an  epoch 
in  her  own  inner  life.  The  man  whom  she  had  loved,  the  hus 
band  who  had  so  coldly  trampled  her  to  the  earth  in  her  seem 
ing  poverty — he  should  witness  this  grand  gala — he  should  sec 
her  in  the  fall  blaze  of  her  splendid  career.  There  was  something 
of  proud  retaliation  in  this  ;  she  fancied  that  it  was  resentful 
hate  that  prompted  this  desire  to  see  and  triumph  over  the  man 
who  had  scorned  her.  Alas  !  poor  woman,  was  there  no  lurk- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  203 

ing  hope  ? — no  feeling  that  she  dared  not  call  by  its  right  name 
in  all  that  wild  excitement  ? 

She  sent  for  Jacob,  and  besought  him  to  devise  some  means 
by  which  Leicester  should  be  won  to  attend  the  ball,  without 
suspecting  her  identity. 

Let  it  be  superb — let  it  surpass  everything  hitherto  known 
in  elegance,"  she  said — "  he  shall  be  here — he  shall  see  the  poor 
governess,  the  scorned  wife  in  a  new  phase." 

There  was  triumph  in  her  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  love  this  man,  even  now,  in  spite  of  all  that  he  has 
done  ?"  said  Jacob  Strong,  who  stood  before  her  while  she 
spoke. 

''No,"  she  answered — "no,  I  hate — oh!  how  I  do  hate 
him  !" 

Jacob  regarded  her  with  a  steady,  fixed  glance  of  the  eye  ; 
he  was  afraid  to  believe  her.  He  would  not  have  believed 
her  but  for  the  powerful  wish  that  gave  an  unnatural  impulse  to 
his  faith. 

"He  may  be  dazzled  by  all  this  splendor  ;  the  knowledge  of 
so  much  wealth  will  make  him  humble — he  will  be  your  slave 
again  1" 

Ada  glanced  around  the  sumptuous  array  of  her  boudoir 
Her  eyes  sparkled ;  her  lip  quivered  with  haughty  triumph. 

"  And  I  would  spurn  him  even  as  he  spurned  me  in  that 
humble  room  over-head — that  room  filled  with  its  wealth  of  old 
memories." 

Jacob  turned  away  to  hide  the  joy  that  burned  in  his  eyes. 

"  Oh  !  my  mistress,  say  it  again.  In  earnest  truth,  you  hate 
this  man;  do  not  deceive  yourself.  Have  you  unwound  the 
adder  from  your  heart  ?  Did  that  night  do  its  work  ?" 

Ada  Leicester  paused  ;  she  was  ashamed  to  own,  even  before 
that  ^devoted  servant,  how  closely  the  adder  still  folded  himself 
in  her  bosom.  She  turned  pale,  but  still  answered  with  unfal 
tering  voice,  "  Jacob,  I  hate  him  !" 

"  Xot  yet — -not  as  you  ought  ^o  hate  him,"  answered  Jacob,  re 
garding  herpalid  face  so  searchingly  that  his  own  cheek  whitened, 


204  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  but  when  you  see  him  in  all  his  villany,  as  I  have  seen  him  ; 
when  you  know  all  1" 

"And  do  I  not  know  all ?  What  is  it  you  keep  from  me ? 
What  is  there  to  learn  more  vile — more  terrible  than  the 
past  ?" 

"What  if  I  tell  you  that  within  a  month,  William  Leicester, 
your  husband,  will  be  married  to  another  woman  T' 

"  Married  !  married  to  another  ! — Leicester — my "  she 

broke  off,  for  her  white  lips  refused  to  utter  another  syllable. 
After  a  momentary  struggle  she  started  up — "  does  he  think 
that  I  am  dead  ? — does  he  hope  that  night  has  killed  me  ?" 

"  He  knows  that  you  are  living;  but  thinks  you  have  returned 
to  England." 

"  But  this  is  crime — punishable  crime." 

"I  know  that  it  is." 

A  faint,  incredulous  smile  stole  over  her  lips,  and  she  waved 
her  hand.  "  He  will  not  violate  the  law;  never  was  a  bad  man 
more  prudent." 

"  He  will  be  married  to-morrow  night." 

"And  to  that  girl?  Does  he  love  her  so  much?  Is  her 
beauty  so  overpowering  ?  What  has  she  to  tempt  Leicester 
into  this  crime  ?" 

"  Her  father  is  dead.  By  his  will  a  large  property  falls  to 
this  poor  girl.  The  letter  came  under  cover  to  Leicester  ;  he 
opened  it.  After  the  marriage  they  will  sail  for  the  north  of 
Europe — there  the  letter  will  follow  them,  telling  the  poor 
orphan  of  her  father's  death.  How  can  she  guess  that  her  hus 
band  has  seen  it  before  !" 

"But  I— I  am  not  dead  !" 

"  You  love  him,  he  knows  that  better  than  you  do.  Death  is 
no  stronger  safeguard  than  that  knowledge.  In  your  love  or 
in  your  deatji  he  is  equally  safe." 

"God  help  me  ;  but  I  will  not  be  a  slave  to  this  abject  love 
forever.  If  this  last  treachery  be  true,  my  soul  will  loathe  him 
as  he  deserves." 

"  It  is  true." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  205 

"But  my  ball  is  to-morrow  night.  He  accepted  the  invita 
tion.  You  are  certain  that  he  will  come  ?" 

"  He  accepted  the  invitation  eagerly  enough,"  said  Jacob, 
dryly;  "  but  what  then  ?» 

"  Why,  to-morrow  night — this  cannot  happen  before  to-mor 
row  night — then  I  shall  see  him  ;  after  that — no,  no,  he  dare 
not.  You  see,  Jacob,  it  is  in  order  to  save  him  from  deeper 
crime  ;  we  must  not  sit  still  and  allow  this  poor  girl  to  be 
sacrificed  ;  that  would  be  terrible.  It  must  be  prevented." 

"  Nothing  easier.  Let  him  know  that  the  brilliant,  the 
wealthy  Mrs.  Gordon,  is  his  wife;  say  that  she  has  millions  at 
her  disposal  ;  this  poor  girl  has  only  one  or  two  hundred  thou 
sand,  the  choice  would  be  soon  made." 

"  Do  you  believe  it  ?  can  you  think  it  was  belief  in  my  pov 
erty,  and  not — not  a  deeper  feeling  that  made  him  so  cruel  that 
night  ?  would  he  have  accepted  me  for  this  wealth  ?" 

A  painful  red  hovered  in  Ada's  cheek,  as  she  asked  this 
question  ;  it  was  shaping  a  humiliating  doubt  into  words.  It 
was  exposing  the  scorpion  that  stung  most  keenly  at  her  heart. 

Jacob  drew  closer  to  his  mistress  ;  he  clasped  her  two  hands 
between  his,  and  his  heavy  frame  bent  over  her,  not  awkwardly, 
for  deep  feeling  is  never  awkward. 

"  Oh,  my  mistress,  say  to  me  that  you  will  give  up  this  man 
— utterly  give  him  up  ;  even  now  you  cannot  guess  how  wicked 
he  is  ;  do  not,  by  your  wealth,  help  him  to  make  new  victims  ; 
do  not  see  him  and  thus  give  him  a  right  over  yourself  and  your 
property — a  right  he  will  not  fail  to  use ;  give  up  this  ball ;  leave 
the  city — this  is  no  way  to  find  that  poor  old  man,  that 
child " 

"  Jacob  !  Jacob  !"  almost  shrieked  the  unhappy  woman,  "  do 
you  see  how  such  words  wound  and  rankle  ?  I  may  be  wild 
— the  wish  may  be  madness — but  once  more  let  me  meet  him 
face  to  face " 

Jacob  dropped  her  hands ;  two  great  tears  left  his  eyes,  and 
rolled  slowly  down  his  cheeks. 

"  How  she  loves  that  man  I"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  despondency. 


206  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Remember,  Jacob,  it  is  to  serve  another.  What  if,  think 
ing  himself  safe,  he  marries  that  poor  girl  ?"  said  Ada,  in  an 
humble,  deprecating  tone. 

"Madam,"  answered  Jacob,  "do  you  know  that  the  law 
gives  this  man  power  over  you — a  husband's  power — if  he 
chooses  to  claim  it  ?"  Jacob  broke  off,  and  clenched  his  huge 
hand  in  an  agony  of  impatience,  for  his  words  had  only  brought 
the  bright  blood  into  that  eloquent  face.  Through  those  droop 
ing  lashes  he  saw  the  downcast  eyes  kindle. 

"  She  hopes  it!  she  hopes  it!"  he  said,  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
thought;  "but  I  will  save  her — with  God's  help  I  will  save 
them  both!" 

When  Ada  Leicester  looked  up  to  address  her  servant,  he 
nad  left  the  room. 

Among  other  things,  Jacob  had  been  commissioned  to  pro 
cure  a  quantity  of  hot-house  flowers;  for  the  conservatories  at 
Mrs.  Gordon's  villa  were  to  be  turned  into  perfect  bowers. 
Besides,  Ada  was  prodigal  of  flowers  in  every  room  of  her 
dwelling,  even  when  no  company  was  expected.  In  order  to 
procure  enough  for  this  grand  gala  evening,  Jacob  had  resource 
to  Mrs.  G  ray,  who  trafficked  at  times  in  everything  that  has 
birth  in  the  soil. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  delighted  with  this  commission,  for  it  prom 
ised  a  rich  windfall  to  her  pretty  favorite,  Julia  Warren.  So, 
after  the  market  closed  that  day,  she  went  up  to  Dunlap's,  and 
bargained  for  all  the  exotics  his  spacious  greenhouse  could  pro 
duce.  She  informed  Julia  of  her  good  luck,  and  returned  home 
with  a  warmth  about  the  heart  worth  half  a  dozen  Thanksgiv 
ing  suppers,  bountiful  as  hers  always  were. 

The  next  day  Julia  was  going  up  town,  with  a  basket  loaded 
with  exotics  on  her  arm.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  for  the 
blossoms  had  been  left  on  the  stalk  to  the  latest  hour,  that  no 
sweet  breath  of  their  perfume  should  be  wasted  before  they 
reached  the  boudoir  they  were  intended  to  embellish. 

It  was  a  sweet  task  that  Julia  had  undertaken.  With  her 
love  of  flowers,  it  was .  a  delicious  luxury  to  gaze  down  upon 


FASHION      AND      FAMING.  207 

her  dewy  burden,  as  she  walked  along,  surrounded  by  a  cloud 
of  fragrance  invisible  as  it  was  intoxicating.  A  life  of  priva 
tion  had  rendered  her  delicate  organization  keenly  susceptible 
of  this  delicate  enjoyment.  It  gratified  the  hunger  of  sensa 
tions  almost  ethereal.  She  loitered  on  her  way,  she  touched 
the  flowers  with  her  hands,  that,  like  the  blossoms,  were  soon 
bathed  in  odor.  Rich  masses  of  heliotrope,  the  snowy  cape 
jessamine,  clusters  of  starry  daphne,  crimson  and  white  roses, 
with  many  other  blossoms  strange  as  they  were  sweet,  made 
every  breath  she  drew  a  delight.  A  glow  of  exquisite  satisfac 
tion  spread  over  her  face,  her  dreamy  eyes  were  never  lifted 
from  the  blossoms,  except  when  a  corner  was  to  be  turned  or 
an  obstacle  avoided. 

"Where  are  you  going,  girl?     Are  those  flowers  for  sale?" 

Julia  started  and  looked  up.  She  was  just  then  before  a 
cottage  house,  laced  with  iron  balconies  and  clouded  with  creep 
ing  vines,  red  with  the  crimson  and  gold  of  a  late  Indian  summer. 
The  garden  in  front  was  gorgeous  with  choice  dahlias  and  other 
autumn  flowers  that  had  not  yet  felt  the  frost,  and  on  the  basin 
of  a  small  marble  fountain  in  the  centre  stood  several  large 
aquatic  lilies,  from  which  the  falling  water-drops  rained  with  a 
constant  and  sleepy  sound. 

Julia  did  not  see  all  this  at  once,  for  the  glance  that  she 
cast  around  was  too  wild  and  startled.  She  clasped  the  basket 
of  flowers  closer  to  her  side,  and  stood  motionless.  Some  po 
tent  spell  seemed  upon  her. 

"  Can't  you  speak,  child  ?     Are  those  flowers  for  sale  ?" 

Julia  remained  gazing  in  the  man's  face;  her  eyes,  once  fixed 
on  those  features,  seemed  immoveable.  He  stood  directly  be 
fore  her,  holding  the  iron  gate  which  led  to  the  cottage  open 
with  his  hand. 

«  Xo — no — if  you  please,  sir,  they  are  ordered.  A  lady 
wants  them."  . 

"  Then  they  are  not  paid  for — only  ordered.  Come  in  here. 
There  is  a  It  dy  close  by  who  may  fancy  some  of  those  orange 
blossoms." 


208  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"No,  no,  sir — the  other  lady  might  be  angry!" 

"Nonsense!  I  want  the  flowers — not  enough  to  be  missed, 
though — just  a  handful  of  the  white  ones.  Here  is  a  piece  of 
gold  worth  half  your  load.  Let  me  have  what  I  ask,  and  I 
dare  say  your  customer  will  give  just  as  much  for  the  rest." 

"I  can't,  sir — indeed  I  can't,"  said  Julia,  drawing  a  corner 
of  her  little  plaid  shawl  over  the  basket;  "  but  if  you  are  not 
in  a  hurry — if  the  lady  can  wait*  an  hour — I  will  leave  these 
and  get  some  more  from  the  greenhouse." 

The  man  did  not  answer,  but,  placing  his  hand  on  her  shoul 
der,  pushed  the  frightened  child  through  the  open  gate. 

"  Let  your  customer  wait — during  the  next  hour  you  must 
stay  here.  It  is  not  so  much  the  flowers  that  I  want  as  your 
self!" 

"  Myself !"  repeated  poor  Julia,  with  quivering  lips. 

"  Go  in — go  in — I  want  nothing  that  should  frighten  you. 
Stay — just  now  I  remember  that  face.  Do  you  know  I  am  an 
old  customer  ?" 

"  I  remember,"  answered  Julia,  and  tears  of  affright  rushed 
into  her  eyes. 

"Then  you  recognise  me  again? — it  was  but  a  moment — 
how  can  you  remember  so  long  and  so  well  ?" 

"  By  my  feelings,  sir.  I  wanted  to  cry  then — I  can't  help 
crying  now!" 

"This  is  strange!  Young  ladies  are  not  apt  to  be  so  much 
shocked  when  I  speak  to  them.  No  matter.  I  want  both  your 
flowers  and  your  services  just  now :  oblige  me,  and  I  will  pay 
you  well  for  the  kindness." 

Julia  had  no  choice,  for  as  he  spoke  the  gentleman  closed  the 
gate,  and  completely  obstructed  her  way  out. 

"  Pass  on — pass  on!"  he  said,  with  an  imperative  wave  of  the 
hand. 

Julia  obeyed,  walking  with  nervous  quickness  as  he  drew 
close  to  her.  The  gentleman  rang,  a  faint  noise  came  from 
within,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  a  quiet  old  lady  in 
mourning. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  209 

"  Then  you  have  come  ;  you  persist !"  she  said,  addressing  the 
gentleman  ! 

"  Step  this  way  a  moment/'  he  answered  in  a  subdued  voice, 
opening  the  parlor  door;  "but  first  send  this  little  girl  up  to 
Florence ;  if  you  still  refuse,  she  must  answer  for  a  witness. 
Besides,  shu  has  flowers  in  her  basket,  and  my  sweet  bride 
would  think  a  wedding  ominous  without  them  !" 

"  Ominous  indeed  I"  said  the  lady,  pointing  with  her  finger 
that  Julia  should  ascend  the  stairs.  "  William,  I  will  not  allow 
this  to  go  on  ;  to  witness  the  sin  would  be  to  share  it." 

"  Mother,"  answered  Leicester,  gently  taking  the  lady's  hand, 
while  he  led  he^  to  the  parlor,  "  tell  me  your  objections,  and 
I  will  answer  them  with  all  respect.  Why  is  my  marriage  witk 
Florence  t!raft  opposed  ?" 

"You  have  no  right  to  marry — you  are  not  free — cannot  be 
so  while  Ada  lives." 

"  But  Ada  is  dead  !  Mother,  say  now  if  1  am  not  free  to 
choose  a  wife  ?" 

"  Dead  !  Ada  Wilcox  dead  !  Oh  William,  if  this  be  true!" 

"  If !  It  is  true.  See,  here  are  letters  bearing  proof  that 
even  you  must  acknowledge." 

He  held  out  some  letters  bearing  an  European  post-mark.  The 
old  lady  took  them,  put  on  her  glasses,  and  suspiciously  scru 
tinized  every  line. 

"  Are  you  convinced,  mother,  or  must  I  go  over  sea,  and  tear 
the  dead  from  her  grave  before  your  scruples  yield  ?" 

The  old  lady  lifted  her  face  ;  a  tear  stole  from  beneath  her 
glasses. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  in  a  deep  solemn  voice — "go  on,  add  vic 
tim  to  victim,  legally  or  illegally,  it  scarce  matters — that  which 
you  touch  dies.     But  remember — remember,  William,  every  hew 
sin  presses  its  iron  mark  hard  on  your  mother's  heart,  the  - 
weight  will  crush  her  at  length." 

"Why  is  maternal  love  so  strong  in  your  bosom  that  Scrip 
ture  is  revised  in  my  behalf  ?  Must  my  iniquities  roll  back  on 
past  generations  ?"  said  the  son,  with  a  faint  sneer. 


210  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  No,  it  is  because  my  own  sin  originates  yours.  Your 
father  was  a  bad  man,  William  Leicester,  profligate,  treacher 
ous,  fascinating  as  you  are.  I  married  him  ;  wo,  wo  upon  the 
arrogant  pride  ;  I  married  him,  and  said,  in  wicked  self-confi 
dence — '  My  love  shall  be  his  redemption.'  My  son — my  son, 
you  cannot  understand  me  ;  you  cannot  think  how  terrible  ini 
quity  is  when  it  folds  you  in  its  bosom.  There  is  no  poison  like 
the  love  of  a  profligate ;  the  fang  of  an  adder  is  not  more 
potent.  It  spreads  through  the  whole  being  ;  it  lives  in  the 
moral  life  of  our  children.  I  said  '  My  love  is  all  powerful,  it  shall 
reform  this  man  whom  I  love  so  madly.'  I  made  the  effort  ;  I 
planted  my  soul  beneath  the  Upas  tree,  and  expected  not  only 
to  escape  but  conquer  the  poison.  Look  at  me,  William  •  can 
you  ever  remember  me  other  than  I  am,  still,  cold,  hopeless  ? 
Yet  I  only  lived  with  your  father  three  years.  Before  that  I 
was  bright  and  joyous  beyond  your  belief. 

"  He  died  as  he  had  lived.  Did  the  curse  of  my  arrogance 
end  there  ?  No,  it  found  new  life  in  his  son — his  son  and  mine. 
In  you,  William — in  you  my  punishment  embodied  itself.  Still 
I  hoped  and  strove  against  the  evil  entailed  upon  you.  Heaven 
bear  me  witness,  "I  struggled  unceasingly ;  but  as  you  ap 
proached  maturity,  with  all  the  beauty  and  talent  of  your 
father,  the  moral  poison  revealed  itself  also. 

"-Then  the  love  that  I  felt  for  you  changed  to  fear,  and  as 
one  who  has  turned  a  serpent  loose  among  the  beautiful  things 
of  earth,  I  said,  '  Let  my  life  be  given  to  protect  society  from 
the  evil  spirit  which  my  presumption  has  forced  upon  it.'  It 
was  an  atonement  acceptable  of  God.  How  many  deserted 
victims  my  roof  has  sheltered  you  know — how  many  I  have 
saved  from  the  misery  of  your  influence  it  is  needless  to  say. 
This  one,  so  gentle,  so  rich  in  affection,  I  hoped  to  win  from 
her  enthralment,  or,  failing  that,  resign  her  to  the  arms  of 
death,  more  merciful,  more  gentle  than  yours.  I  have  pleaded 
with  her,  warned  her,  but  she  answers  as  I  answered  when 
those  who  loved  me  said  of  your  father,  'It  is  a  sin  to  marry 
him!'  Must  she  suffer  as  I  have  suffered  ?  Oh!  William,  my 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  211 

son,  turn  aside  this  once  from  your  prey.  She  is  helpless — save 
her  young  heart  from  the  stain  that  has  fallen  upon  mine!" 

"  Nay,  gentle  mother,  this  is  scarcely  a  compliment — you  for 
get  that  I  wish  to  marry  the  young  lady." 

How  cold,  how  insulting  were  the  tones  of  his  voice — how 
relentless  was  the  spirit  that  gleamed  in  his  eyes!  The  un 
happy  mother  stood  before  him,  her  pale  hands  clasped  and 
uplifted,  and  words  of  thrilling  eloquence  hushed  upon  her  lips, 
that  no  syllable  of  his  answer  might  be  lost.  It  came,  that 
dry,  insolent  rejoinder  ;  her  hands  fell ;  her  figure  shrunk  earth 
ward. 

"  I  have  done  1"  broke  from  her  lips,  and  she  walked  slowly 
from  the  room. 

"  Madam,  shall  we  expect  you  at  the  ceremony  ?"  said  Lei 
cester,  following  her  to  the  door. 

She  turned  upon  the  stairs,  and  gave  him  a  look  so  sad,  so 
earnest,  that  even  his  cold  heart  beat  slower. 

"It  is  not  important  I"  he  muttered,  turning  back;  "  we  can 
do  without  her.  This  little  girl  and  the  servant  must  answer, 
though  I  did  hope  to  trust  no  one  n 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

THE     BRIDAL    WREATH. 

The  wreath  of  white  jasmines  is  torn  from  her  brow, 
The  bride  is  alone,  and,  oh,  desolate  now. 

JULIA  WARREN  mounted  the  stairs  in  wild  haste,  as  the  caged 
bird  springs  from  perch  to  perch  when  terrified  by  strange  faces. 
Then  she  paused  in  her  fright,  doubtful  where  to  turn  or  what 
room  to  enter.  As  she  stood  thus  irresolute,  a  door  was  softly 
pushed  open,  and  a  fair  young  face  looked  out.  The  eyes  were 


212  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

bent  downward;  the  cheek  and  temples  shaded  with  masses  of 
loose  ringlets,  that  admitted  snowy  glimpses  of  a  graceful  neck 
and  shoulders,  uncovered  save  by  these  bright  tresses  and  a 
muslin  dressing-down,  half  falling  off,  and  huddled  to  the  bosom 
with  a  fair  little  hand. 

Imperceptibly  the  door  swung  more  and  more  open,  till  Julia 
caught  the  outline  of  a  figure,  slender,  flexible,  and  so  fragile 
in  its  beauty,  that  to  her  excited  imagination  it  seemed  almost 
ethereal.  Like  a  spirit  that  listens  for  some  kindred  sympathy, 
the  young  creature  bent  in  the  half-open  door.  The  faint  mur 
mur  of  voices  from  below  rose  and  fell  upon  her  ear.  No  words 
could  be  distinguished ;  nothing  but  the  low,  deep  tones  of  a 
voice,  familiar  and  dear  as  the  pulsations  of  her  own  heart, 
blended  with  the  strangely  passionate  accents  of  another.  The 
gentle  listener  could  hardly  convince  herself  that  some  strange 
woman  had  not  entered  the  house,  so  thrilling  and  full  of 
pathos  was  that  voice,  usually  so  calm  and  frigid. 

Julia  stood  motionless,  holding  her  breath.  She  saw 
nothing  but  the  outline  of  a  slender  person,  the  shadowy  gleam 
of  features  through  masses  of  wavy  hair,  but  it  seemed  as  if  she 
had  met  that  graceful  vision  before — it  might  be  in  a  dream — it 
might  be — stay,  the  young  girl  lifted  her  head,  and  swept  back 
the  ringlets  with  her  hand.  A  pair  of  dark,  liquid  eyes  fell 
upon  the  flower  girl,  and  she  knew  the  glance.  The  eyes  were 
larger,  brighter,  more  densely  circled  with  shadows  than  they 
had  been,  but  the  tender  expression,  the  soft  loveliness,  nothing 
could  change  that. 

The  hand  dropped  from  among  the  ringlets  it  held,  away 
from  that  pale  cheek,  and  a  glow,  as  of  freshly-gathered  roses, 
broke  through  them  as  Florence  drew  her  form  gently  up,  and 
stood  with  hor  eyes  fixed  upon  the  intruder. 

Julia  came  forward,  changing  color  with  every  step. 

"  A  gentleman — the  lady,  I  mean — I — I  was  sent  up  here. 
If  they  want  the  flowers  for  you,  I  would  not  mind,  though  the 
other  lady  has  spoken  for  them  I" 

Florence  cast  her  eyes  on  the  basket  of  flowers  ;  a  bright 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  213 

•mile  kindled  over  her  face,  and  drawing  the  girl  into  the 
chamber,  she  took  the  heavy  basket  in  her  arms,  and,  over 
powered  by  its  weight,  sunk  softly  down  to  the  carpet,  resting 
it  in  her  lap.  Thus,  with  the  blossoms  half  buried  in  the  white 
waves  of  her  dressing-gown,  she  literally  buried  her  face  in 
them,  while  her  very  heart  seemed  to  drink  in  the  perfume  that 
exhaled  again  in  broken  and  exquisite  sighs. 

"  And  he  sent  them  ? — how  good,  how  thoughtful !  Oh  !  I 
im  too — too  happy!" 

She  gathered  up  a  double  handful  of  the  blossoms,  and  rained 
them  back  into  the  basket.  Their  perfume  floated  around  her; 
some  of  the  buds  fell  in  the  folds  of  her  snowy  muslin,  that 
drooped  like  waves  of  foam  over  her  limbs.  She  was  happy 
and  beautiful  as  an  angel  gathering  blossoms  in  some  chosen 
nook  of  Paradise. 

There  was  something  contagious  in  all  this — something  that 
sent  the  dew  to  Julia's  eyes,  and  a  glow  of  love  to  her  heart. 

"  I  am  glad — I  am  almost  glad  that  he  made  me  come  in," 
she  said,  dropping  on  her  knees,  that  she  might  gather  up  some 
buds  that  had  fallen  over  the  basket.  "  How  I  wish  you  could 
have  them  all !  He  offered  a  large  gold  piece,  but  you  know  I 
could  not  take  it.  If  we — that  is,  if  grandpa  and  grandma 
were  rich,  I  never  would  take  a  cent  for  flowers  ;  it  seems  as 
if  God  made  them  on  purpose  to  give  away." 

"  So  they  are  not  mine,  after  all?"  said  Florence,  with  a  look 
and  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  Yes — oh,  yes,  a  few.  That  glass  thing  on  the  toilet,  I  will 
crowd  it  quite  full,  the  prettiest  too — -just  take  out  those  you 
like  best." 

"  Still  he  ordered  then*  -he  tried  to  purchase  the  whole,  in 
that  lies  happiness  enough/  The  sweet,  joyous  look  stole  back 
to  her  face  again  ;  that  thought  was  more  precious  than  all  the 
fragrance  and  bloom  she  had  coveted. 

The  door-bell  rang,  Florence  heard  persons  coming  from  the 
parlor,  she  started  up  leaving  the  basket  at  her  feet. 

"Oh,  I  shall  delay  him — I  shall  be  too  late;  will  no  one 


214  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

come  to  help  me?"  she  exclaimed.     "  I  dare  not  ask  her,  but 
you,  surely  you  could  stay  for  half  an  hour  ?" 

"  I  must  stay  if  you  wish  it ;  he  will  not  let  me  go  ;  but  in 
deed,  indeed,  I  am  in  haste.  It  will  be  quite  dark." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  keep  you  by  force,"  said  Florence,  gently  ; 
"  but  you  seem  kind,  and  I  have  no  one  to  help  me  dress. 
Besides,  she,  his  mother,  will  not  stay  in  the  room,  and  the 
thought  of  being  quite  alone,  with  no  bridesmaid — no  woniaj^ 
even  for  a  witness — it  frightens  me  I" 

"  What — what  is  it  that  you  wish  of  me  ?"  questioned  Julia 
while  a  sudden  and  strange  thrill  ran  through  her  frame. 

"  I  wish  you  to  stay  a  little  while  to  help  to  put  on  my  dress, 
and  then  go  down  with  me.  You  look  very  young,  but  no  one 
else  will  come  near  me,  and  it  seems  unnatural  to  be  married 
without  a  single  female  standing  by." 

Florence  grew  pale  as  she  spoke  ;  there  was  indeed  something 
lonely  and  desolate  in  her  position,  which  all  at  once  came  over 
her  with  overwhelming  force.  Julia,  too,  from  surprise  or  some 
deeper  feeling,  seemed  struck  with  a  sudden  chill ;  her  lips  were 
slightly  parted,  the  color  fled  from  her  cheek. 

"Married  !  married  !"  she  repeated,  in  a  voice  that  fell  upon 
the  heart  of  Florence  like  an  omen. 

"  To-night,  in  an  hour,  I  shall  be  his  wife  !"  How  pale  the 
poor  bride  was  as  these  words  fell  from  her  lips  !  How  coldly 
lay  the  heart  in  her  bosom  !  She  bent  her  head  as  if  waiting 
for  the  guardian  angel  who  should  have  kept  better  watch  over 
a  being  so  full  of  trust  and  gentleness. 

"  His  wife  I  his!"  said  Julia,  recoiling  a  step,  "  oh  !  how  can 
you — how  can  you  1" 

A  crimson  flush  shot  over  that  pale  forehead,  and  Florence 
drew  up  her  form  to  its  full  height. 

"Will  you  help  me — will  you  stay  ?" 

"  I  dare  not  say  no  !"  answered  the  child  ;  "  I  would  not,  if 
I  dare." 

Again  the  door-bell  rang.  "  Hush  !"  said  Florence,  breath 
lessly  ;  "  it  is  the  clergyman  ;  that  is  a  strange  voice,  and  he — ' 


FASHION      AND      FA 

Leicester — admits  him.     How  happy  I  thought 

hour  ;  but  I  am  chilly,  chilly  as  death  ;  oh,  help  me,  child  I" 

She  had  been  making  an  effort  to  arrange  her  hair,  but  her    • 
hands  trembled,  and  at  length  fell  helplessly  down.     She  really 
seemed  shivering  with  cold. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down  in  this  easy-chair,  and  let  me  try,"  said 
Julia,  shaking  off  the  chill  that  had  settled  on  her  spirits,  and  / 
wheeling  a  large  chair,  draped  with  white  dimity,  toward  the 
toilet.  Lights  were  burning  in  tall  candlesticks  on  each  side  of 
a  swing  mirror,  whose  frame  of  filagreed  and  frosted  silver 
gleamed  ghastly  and  cold  on  the  pale  face  of  the  bride. 

"  How  white  I  am  ;  will  nothing  give  me  a  color  ?"  cried  the 
young  creature,  starting  up  from  the  chair.  "Warmth — that 
is  what  I  want !  My  dress — let  us  put  on  that  first ;  then  I 
can  muffle  myself  in  something  while  you  curl  my  hair." 

She  took  up  a  robe  of  costly  Brussels  lace.  "  Isn't  it  beauti 
ful  ?"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  shaking  out  the  soft  folds.  "  He  sent 
it."  She  then  threw  off  her  dressing-gown,  and  arrayed  herself  in 
the  bridal  robe  ;  the  exertion  seemed  to  animate  her ;  a  bright 
bloom  rose  to  her  cheek,  and  her  motions  became  nervous  with 
excitement. 

"  Some  orange  blossoms  to  loop  up  the  skirt  in  front,"  she 
said,  after  Julia  had  fastened  the  dress  ;  "  here,  just  here  !"  and 
she  gathered  up  some  folds  of  the  soft  lace  in  her  hand,  watch 
ing  the  child  as  she  fell  upon  one  knee  to  perform  the  task. 
Florence  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with  the  wild,  eager 
excitement  that  had  succeeded  the  chill  of  which  she  had  com 
plained,  and  could  do  nothing  for  herself.  When  the  buds  were 
all  in  place,  she  sunk  into  the  easy-chair,  huddling  her  snowy 
arms  and  bosom  in  a  rose-colored  opera  cloak  ;  for,  though  her 
cheeks  were  burning,  cold  shivers  now  and  then  seemed  to  ripple 
through  her  veins.  The  soft  trimming  of  swan's  down,  which 
she  pressed  to  her  bosom  with  both  hands,  seemed  devoid  of  all 
warmth  one  moment,  and  the  next  she  flung  it  aside  glowing 
with  over-heat.  There  was  something  more  than  agitation  in 
all  this,  but  it  gave  unearthly  splendor  to  her  beauty. 


216  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Now — now,"  said  Julia,  laying  the  last  ringlet  softly  down 
upon  the  neck  of  the  bride  ;  "  look  at  yourself,  sweet  lady,  see 
how  beautiful  you  are." 

Florence  stood  up,  and  smiled  as  she  saw  herself  in  the  mir 
ror;  an  angel  from  heaven  could  not  have  looked  more  delicately 
Tadiarit.  Masses  of  raven  curls  fell  upon  the  snowy  neck  and  the 
bridal  dress.  Circling  her  head,  and  bending1  with  a  soft  curve 
to  the  forehead,  was  a  light  wreath  of  starry  jessamine  flowers, 
woven  with  the  deep,  feathery  green  of  some  delicate  spray,  that 
Julia  selected  from  her  basket  because  it  was  so  tremulous 
and  fairy-like.  All  at  once  the  smile  fled  from  the  lips  of 
Florence  Craft ;  a  look  of  mournful  affright  came  to  her  eyes, 
and  she  raised  both  hands  to  tear  away  the  wreath. 

"  Did  you  know  it  ?  Was  this  done  on  purpose  ?"  she  said, 
turning  upon  the  child. 

"  What — what  have  I  done  ?" 

"  This  wreath — these  jessamines — you  have  woven  them  with 
cypress  leaves."  Florence  sunk  into  the  chair  shuddering  ;  she 
had  no  strength  to  unweave  the  ominous  wreath  from  her 
head. 

"  I — I  did  not  know  it,"  said  the  child  greatly  distressed  ; 
"  they  were  beautiful — I  only  thought  of  that.  Shall  I  take 
them  off,  and  put  roses  in  the  place  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes — roses,  roses — these  make  me  feel  like  death  !" 

That  instant  there  was  a  gentle  knock  at  the  chamber  door  ; 
Julia  opened  it,  and  there  stood  Mr.  Leicester.  The  child  drew 
back  :  he  saw  Florence  standing  before  the  toilet. 

"  Florence,  love,  we  are  waiting  !" 

He  advanced  into  the  chamber  and  drew  her  arm  through 
his.  She  looked  back  into  the  mirror,  and  shuddered  till  the 
cypress  leaves  trembled  visibly  in  her  curls. 

"  My  beautiful — my  wife  I"  whispered  Leicester,  pressing  her 
hand  to  his  lips. 

What  woman  could  withstand  that  voice — those  words  ?  The 
color  came  rushing  to  her  cheek  again,  the  light  to  her  eyes  ; 
she  trembled,  but  not  with  the  ominous  fear  that  possessed  her 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  217 

a  moment  before.  Those  words — sweeter  than  hope — shed 
warmth,  and  light,  and  joy  where  terror  had  been. 

"  Follow  us  1"  said  Leicester  addressing  the  child. 

Julia  moved  forward  :  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  the  bride 
groom  ;  he  paused — 

"  You  can  write — at  least  well  enough  to  sign  your  name  ?" 
he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  can  write,"  she  answered,  timidly. 

"  Very  well — come!" 

The  parlor  was  brilliantly  illuminated,  every  shutter  was 
closed,  and  over  the  long  window,  hitherto  shaded  only  with 
lace,  fell  curtains  of  amber  damask,  making  the  seclusion  more 
perfect. 

A  clergyman  was  in  the  room,  and  Leicester  had  brought 
his  servant  as  a  witness.  This  man  stood  near  the  window, 
leaning  heavily  against  the  wall,  his  features  immovable,  his 
eyes  bent  upon  the  door.  Julia  started  as  she  saw  Mm,  for 
she  remembered  the  time  they  had  met  before  upon  the  wharf, 
on  that  most  eventful  day  of  her  life.  His  glance  fell  on  her 
as  she  came  timidly  in  behind  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride ; 
there  was  a  slight  change  in  his  countenance,  then  a  gleam  of 
recognition,  which  made  the  child  feel  less  completely  among 
strangers. 

It  was  a  brief  ceremony;  the  clergyman's  voice  was  monoto 
nous  ;  the  silence  chilling.  Julia  wept ;  to  her  it  seemed  like 
a  funeral. 

The  certificate  was  made  out.  Jacob  signed  his  name,  but 
so  bunglingly  that  no  one  could  have  told  what  it  was.  Mr. 
Leicester  did  not  make  the  effort.  Julia  took  the  pen,  her 
little  hand  trembled  violently,  but  the  name  was  written  quite 
well  enough  for  a  girl  of  her  years. 

"  Now,  sir — now,  please,  may  I  go  ?"  she  said,  addressing 
Leicester. 

"  Yes,  yes — here  is  the  piece  of  gold.  I  trust  your  employer 
will  find  no  fault — but  first  tell  me  where  you  live  ?" 

Julia  told  him  where  to  find  her  humble  abode,  and  hurried 

10 


218          FASHION   AND  FAMINE. 

from  the  room.  Her  basket  of  flowers  had  been  left  in  the 
chamber  above ;  she  ran  up  to  get  it,  eager  to  be  gone.  In 
her  haste  she  opened  the  nearest  door  ;  it  was  a  bed-room, 
dimly  lighted,  and  by  a  low  couch  knelt  the  old  lady  she  had 
seen  in  the  hall.  Her  hands  were  clasped,  her  white  face  up 
lifted  ;  there  was  anguish  in  her  look,  but  that  tearless  anguish 
that  can  only  be  felt  after  the  passions  are  quenched.  Julia 
drew  softly  back.  She  found  her  basket  in  the  next  room,  and 
came  forth  again,  bearing  it  on  her  arm.  She  heard  Leicester's 
voice  while  passing  through  the  hall,  and  hurried  out,  dreading 
that  he  might  attempt  to  detain  her. 

Scarcely  had  the  child  passed  out  when  Leicester  came  forth, 
leading  Florence  by  the  hand.  He  spoke  a  few  words  to  her 
in  a  low  voice  :  "  Try  and  reconcile  her,  Florence.  She  never 
loved  me,  I  know  that,  but  who  could  resist  you  ?  To-morrow, 
if  she  proves  stubborn,  I  will  take  you  hence,  or,  at  the  worst, 
in  a  few  days  we  will  be  ready  for  our  voyage  to  Europe." 

Florence  listened  with  downcast  eyes,  "  My  father,  my  kind 
old  father  !  he  will  not  be  angry  ;  he  must  have  known  how  it 
would  end  when  he  gave  me  to  your  charge.  Still  it  may  offend 
him  to  hear  that  I  am  married,  when  he  thinks  me  at  school/' 

"  He  will  not  be  angry,  love,"  said  Leicester,  and  he  thought 
of  the  letter  announcing  old  Mr.  Craft's  death.  "But  the 
good  lady  up  stairs  ;  you  must  win  her  into  a  better  mood 
before  we  meet  again  ;  till  then,  sweet  wife,  adieu  I" 

He  kissed  her  hand  two  or  three  times — cast  a  hurried  glance 
up  stairs,  as  if  afraid  of  being  seen,  and  then  pressed  her,  for 
one  instant,  to  his  bosom. 

"  Sweet  wife  !"  the  name  rang  through  and  through  her  young 
heart  like  a  chime  of  music.  She  held  her  breath,  and  listened 
to  his  footsteps  as  he  left  the  house,  then  stole  softly  up  the 
stairs. 

The  clergyman  went  out  while  Julia  was  up  stairs  in  search 
of  her  flowers.  Jacob  Strong  left  the  parlor  at  the  same  time, 
but  instead  of  returning,  he  let  the  clergyman  out,  and,  moving 
back  into  the  darkened  extremity  of  the  hall,  stood  there,  coc- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  219 

cealed  and  motionless.  He  witnessed  the  interview  between 
Leicester  and  Florence,  and,  so  still  was  everything  around, 
heard  a  little  of  the  conversation. 

Before  Florence  was  half  way  up  the  stairs  he  came  out  of 
the  darkness  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  Only  a  little  while,  dear  lady,  pray  come  back  ;  I  will  not 
keep  you  long." 

Florence,  thinking  that  Leicester  had  left  some  message  with 
his  servant,  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  parlor.  Jacob 
followed  her  and  closed  the  door  ;  a  few  minutes  elapsed — pos 
sibly  ten,  and  there  came  from  the  closed  room  a  wild,  passionate 
cry  of  anguish.  The  door  was  flung  open — the  bride  staggered 
forth,  and  supported  herself  against  the  frame-work. 

"  Mother  !  mother  !  oh,  madam  !"  Her  voice  broke,  and 
ended  in  gasping  s'obs. 

A  door  overhead  opened,  and  the  old  lady  whom  Julia  had 
seen  upon  her  knees  came  gliding  like  a  black  shadow  down  the 
stairs. 

"I  thought  that  he  had  gone,"  she  said,  and  her  usually  calm 
accent  was  a  little  hurried.  "Would  he  kill  you  under  my  roof? 
William  Leicester  !" 

"  He  is  not  here — he  is  gone,"  sobbed  Florence,  but  that 
man —  She  pointed  with  her  finger  toward  Jacob  Strong, 
who  stood  a  little  within  the  door.  He  came  forward,  revealing 
a  face  from  which  all  the  stolid  indifference  was  swept  away. 
It  was  not  only  troubled,  but  wet  with  tears. 

"It  is  cruel — I  have  been  awfully  cruel,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  old  lady — "  but  she  must  be  told.  I  could  not  put  it  off. 
She  thought  herself  his  wife." 

"I  am  his  wife  ! — I  am  his  wife  ! — his  wife,  do  you  hear  ?" 
almost  shrieked  the  wretched  girl.  "  He  called  me  so  himself. 
You  saw  us  married,  and  yet  dare  to  slander  him  1" 

"  Lady,  she  is  not  his  wife !"  said  Jacob,  sinking  his  voice, 
bat  speaking  earnestly,  as  if  the  task  he  had  undertaken  were 
very  painful.'  "  He  is  married  already  !" 

"  He  told  me — and  gave  me  letters  from  abroad  to  prove 


220  FASHION      ANIT     FAMINE. 

that  Ada,  his  wife,  was  dead."  The  old  lady  spoke  in  her 
usual  calm  way,  but  her  face  was  paler  than  it  had  been,  and 
her  eyes  were  full  of  mournful  commiseration  as  she  bent  them 
upon  the  wretched  bride. 

"  Then  he  was  married — he  has  been  married  before  I"  mur 
mured  Florence,  and  her  poor,  pale  hands,  fell  helplessly  down. 
The  old  lady  drew  close  to  her,  as  if  to  offer  some  comfort, 
but  she  had  so  long  held  all  affectionate  impulses  in  abeyance, 
that  even  this  action  was  constrained  and  chilling,  though  her 
heart  yearned  toward  the  poor  girl. 

"  Madam,  did  you  believe  him  when  he  said  his  wife  was  no 
more  ?"  questioned  Jacob  Strong. 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head,  and  a  mournful  smile  stole 
across  her  thin  lips  ;  pain  is  fearfully  impressive  when  wrung 
from  the  heart  in  a  smile  like  that.  Florence  shuddered. 

"  And  you — you  also,  his  mother  !"  burst  from  her  quivering 
lips. 

"  God  forgive  me  !  I  am,"  answered  the  old  lady. 

"  Then,"  said  Jacob  Strong,  turning  his  face  resolutely  from 
the  poor,  young  creature,  whose  heart  his  words  were  crush 
ing  :  "  Then,  madam,  you  have  seen  his  wife — you  would  know 
her  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  should  know  her." 

"  This  night,  this  very  night,  you  shall  see  her  then.  Come 
with  me ;  this  poor  young  lady  will  not  believe  what  I  have 
said.  Come  and  be  a  witness  that  Mrs.  Ada  Leicester  is  alive 
— alive  with  his  knowledge.  Two  hours  from  this  you  shall 
see  them  together — Leicester  and  his  wife,  the  mother  of  his 
child.  Will  you  come  ?  there  seems  no  other  way  by  which 
this  poor  girl  can  be  saved." 

"  I — I  will  go  !  let  me  witness  this  meeting,"  cried  Florence, 
suddenly  arousing  herself,  and  standing  upright.  "  I  will  not 
take  his  word  nor  yours  ;  you  slander  him,  you  slander 
him  !  If  he  has  a  wife,  let  me  look  upon  her  with  my  own 
eyes." 

The  old  lady  and  Jacob  looked  at  each  other.     Florence 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  221 

stood  before  them,  her  soft  eyes  flashing,  her  cheeks  fired  with 
the  blood  grief  had  driven  from  her  heart. 

"  You  dare  not — I  know  it,  you  dare  not !" 

Still  her  auditors  looked  at  each  other  in  painful  dcubt. 

"  I  knew  that  it  was  false  1"  cried,  Florence,  with  a  laugh  of 
wild  exultation.  "  You  hesitate,  this  proves  it.  To-morrow, 
madam,  I  will  leave  this  roof — I  will  go  to  my  husband.  The 
very  presence  of  those  who  slander  him  is  hateful  to  me.  To 
night  ;  yes,  this  instant,  I  will  go." 

"  Let  her  be  convinced,"  said  the  old  lady. 

The  strong  nerves  of  Jacob  gave  way.  He  looked  at  that 
young  face,  so  beautiful  in  its  wild  anguish,  and  shrunk  from 
the  consequences  of  the  conviction  that  awaited  her. 

"  It  would  be  her  death,"  he  said.     "  I  cannot  do  it !" 

"  Better  death  than  that  which  might  follow  this  unbelief." 

The  old  lady  placed  her  hand  upon  Jacob's  arm,  and  drew 
him  aside.  They  conversed  together  in  low  voices,  and  Flor 
ence  regarded  them  with  her  large,  wild  eyes,  as  a  wounded 
gazelle  might  gaze  upon  its  pursuers. 

"  Come !"  said  Leicester's  mother,  attempting  to  lay  her 
hand  upon  the  shrinking  arm  of  the  bride;  "it needs  some  pre 
paration,  but  you  shall  go.  God  help  us  both,  this  is  a  fearful 
task !" 

Florence  was  strong  with  excitement.  She  turned,  and  al 
most  ran  up  the  stairs.  Jacob  went  out,  and  during  the  next 
two  hours,  save  a  slight  sound  in  the  upper  rooms,  from  time  to 
time,  the  cottage  seemed  abandoned. 

At  length  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  gate.  Jacob  entered, 
and  seating  himself  in  the  parlor,  avaited.  They  came  down  at 
last,  but  so  changed,  that  no  human  penetration  could  have 
detected  their  identity.  The  old  lady  was  still  in  black,  but  so 
completely  enveloped  in  a  veil  of  glossy  silk,  that  nothing  but 
her  eyes  could  be  seen.  A  diamond  crescent  upon  the  forehead, 
a  few  silver  stars  scattered  among  the  sombre  folds  that  flowed 
over  her  person,  gave  sufficient  character  to  a  dress  that  was 
only  chosen  as  a  disguise. 


222  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Florence  was  in  a  similar  dress,  save  that  everything  about 
her  was  snowy  white.  A  veil  of  flowing  silk  had  been  cast 
over  her  bridal  array,  glossy  and  wave-like,  but  thick  enough 
to  conceal  her  features.  Gleams  of  violet  and  rosy  tulle  floated 
over  this,  like  the  first  tints  of  sunrise  and  the  morning  star, 
sparkling  with  diamonds,  gathered  up  the  veil  on  her  left  temple, 
leaving  it  to  flow,  like  the  billows  of  a  cloud,  over  her  form, 
and  downward  till  it  swept  her  feet.  Without  a  word  the 
three  went  forth  and  entered  the  carriage. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

AN  HOUR  BEFORE  THE  BALL. 

The  child  stands,  meekly,  by  her  mother. 

Look,  woman,  in  those  earnest  eyes  ! 
Say,  canst  thou  understand,  or  smother 

The  deep  maternal  mysteries 

That  rise  and  swell  within  thy  breast ; 

That  throb  athwart  thy  aching  brain, 
Till,  with  deep  tenderness  oppressed, 

Hope,  thought,  and  feeling  turn  to  pain  ? 

WE  take  the  reader  once  more  to  the  residence  of  Ada  Lei 
cester — not  as  formerly,  when  the  tempest  raged  around  its 
walls,  and  darkness  slept  in  its  sumptuous  rooms — when  the 
wail  of  tortured  hearts  and  sobs  of  anguish  alone  broke  the 
gloomy  stillness — not  as  thea»do  we  revisit  this  stately  mansion. 
Now  it  is  lighted  up  like  a  fairy  palace  ;  through  the  richly 
stained  sashes,  from  the  gables,  and  the  ivy-clad  tower,  clouds 
of  tinted  light  kindle  the  bland  autumnal  atmosphere  to  a  soft 
golden  haze.  The  tall  old  trees  that  surround  the  mansion 
seem  bending  beneath  a  fruitage  of  stars,  so  thickly  are  they 
beset  with  lamps  that  light  up  the  depths  of  their  ripe  foliage. 
So  broad  is  the  illumination,  so  rich  the  tinted  rays,  you  might 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  223 

see  to  gather  fall  flowers  from  the  ground,  even  to  their  shaded 
extremity.  White  dahlias  are  amber-hued  in  that  mellow  light; 
wax  balls  hang  like  drops  of  gold  in  the  thickets ;  the  ivy 
leaves  about  the  narrow  windows  of  the  tower  seem  dripping 
with  starlight ;  and  a  woodbine  that  has  crept  up  one  of  the 
young  maples,  a  little  way  off,  glows  out  along  the  golden 
foliage  so  vividly,  that  the  branches  seem  absolutely  on  tire. 
f  Julia  Warren  approached  this  mansion  with  wonder.  It 
seemed  like  something  she  had  read  of  in  a  fairy  tale — the 
lamps  gleaming  among  the  trees  and  in  the  thickets  ;  the 
foliage  so  strangely  luminous  ;  the  crisp  grass  tinged  with  a 
brownish  and  golden  green  ;  all  these  things  were  like  enchant 
ment  to  the  child  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  a  comfortless  base 
ment.  She  looked  around  in  delighted  bewilderment ;  the  very 
basket  upon  her  arm  seemed  filled  with  strange  blossoms  as 
she  entered  the  lofty  vestibule,  and  changed  the  richly  hued 
atmosphere,  without  for  the  flood  of  pure  gas-light  that  filled 
the  dwelling. 

"  Oh  !  here  she  is  at  last — why,  child,  what  has  kept  you  ?" 

A  pretty  young  woman,  in  a  jaunty  cap  and  pink  ribbons, 
made  this  exclamation,  while  Julia  stood  looking  about  for 
some  one  to  address.  Her  manner,  her  quick  but  graceful 
movements,  had  an  imposing  effect  upon  the  child. 

"  Are  you  the  lady  ?"  she  said. 

"  No — no  !"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  pretty  laugh,  for  the 
compliment  pleased  her.  "  Come  up  stairs — quick,  quick — my 
lady  has  been  so  impatient." 

They  went  up  a  flight  of  steps,  the  waiting-maid  exchanging 
words  with  a  footman  who  passed  them,  Julia  treading  lightly 
under  her  load  of  flowers.  Her  little  feet  sunk  into  the  carpet 
at  every  step  ;  once  only  in  her  life  had  she  felt  the  same  elas 
tic  swell  follow  her  tread.  Yet  nothing  could  be  more  unlike 
than  the  dark  mansion  that  rose  upon  her  memory,  and  the 
vision-like  beauty  of  everything  upon  which  her  eyes  rested. 
The  floors  seemed  literally  trodden  down  with. flowers.  Rich 
draperies  of  silk  met  her  eve  wherever  she  turned.  A  door 


224  FASHION      AND      FAMINE 

swung  open  to  the  touch  of  the  waiting-maid.  Julia  remem 
bered  the  room  which  they  entered — the  couch  of  carved  ivory 
and  azure  damask — the  lace  curtains  that  hnng  against  the 
windows  like  floating  frost-work,  and  the  rich  blue  waves  that 
fell  over  them.  Clearer  than  all  she  recognised  the  marblt 
Flora  placed  near  the  couch,  bending  from  its  pedestal,  witft 
pure  and  classic  grace,  and  gazing  so  intently  on  the  white  liliee 
in  its  hand,as  if  it  doubted  that  the  flowers  were  .indeed  but 
a  beautiful  mockery  of  nature. 

Julia  drew  a  quick  breath  as  she  recognised  all  these  objects, 
but  the  waiting  maid  gave  her  but  little  time  even  for  surprise. 
She  crossed  the  room  and  opened  a  door  on  the  opposite  side. 
They  entered  a  dressing-room,  leading  evidently  to  a  sumptu 
ous  bed-chamber,  for  through  the  open  door  Julia  could  see 
glimpses  of  rose-colored  damask  sweeping  from  the  windows, 
and  a  snow  white  bed,  over  which  masses  of  embroidered  lace 
fell  in  transparent  waves  to  the  floor.  The  dressing-room  cor 
responded  with  the  chamber,  but  Julia  saw  nothing  of  its  splen 
dor.  Her  eyes  were  turned  upon  a  toilet  richly  draped  with 
lace,  and  littered  with  jewels  ;  a  standing-glass  set  in  frosted 
silver,  was  lighted  on  each  side  by  a  small  alabaster  lamp, 
which  hung  against  the  exquisite  chasing  like  two  great  pearls, 
each  with  perfumed  flame  breaking  up  from  its  heart. 

It  was  not  the  sight  of  this  superb  toilet,  though  a  fortune 
had  been  flung  carelessly  upon  it,  that  made  the  child's  heart 
beat  so  tumultuously,  but  the  lady  who  stood  before  it.  Her 
back  was  toward  the  door,  but  Julia  felt  who  she  was,  though 
the  beautiful  features  were  only  reflected  upon  her  from  the 
mirror. 

The  lady  turned.  Her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  diamond 
bracelet  she  was  attempting  to  clasp  on  her  arm.  Oh  !  how 
different  was  that  face  from  the  tear-stained  features  Julia  had 
seen  that  dark  night.  How  radiant,  how  more  than  beautiful 
she  was  now  !  Every  movement 'replete  with  grace;  every 
look  brilliant  with  flashes  of  exultant  loveliness  ! 

How  great  was  the  contrast  between  that  superb  creature, 


FASHION      AND      FAMIJSE.  225 

• 

in  her  robe  of  rich  amber  satin,  heightened  by  the  floating 
lustre  of  soft  Brussels  lace,  which  fell  around  her  like  a  web  of 
woven  moonlight,  and  the  humble  child  who  stood  there  so 
motionless,  with  the  flower-basket  at  her  feet.  The  pink  hood, 
faded  with  much  washing,  shaded  her  eyes  ;  her  hands  were 
folded  beneath  the  little  plaid  shawl  that  half  concealed  her 
cheap  calico  dress.  Notwithstanding  this "  contrast  between 
the  proud  and  mature  beauty  of  the  woman  and  the  meek  love 
liness  of  the  child,  there  was  an  air,  a  look — something  indeed 
indescribable  in  one,  which  reminded  you  of  the  other.  Ada 
turned  suddenly,  and  moved  a  step  toward  the  child  ;  a 
thousand  rainbow  gleams  flashed  from  the  folds  of  her  lace 
overdress  as  she  moved  ;  a  massive  wreath  of  gems  lighted 
up  the  golden  depths  of  her  tresses,  but  its  brilliancy  was  not 
more  beautiful  than  the  smile  with  which  she  recognized  the 
little  girl. 

"  And  so  you  have  found  me  again,"  she  said,  untying  the 
pink  hood,  and  smoothing  the  bright  hair  thus  exposed  with 
her  two  palms,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  waiting-maid. 
"Look,  Kosanna,  is  she  not  lovely,  with  her  meek  eyes  and 
that  smile  ?" 

The  waiting-maid  turned  her  eyes  from  the  lady  to  the  child. 

"  Beautiful  !  why,  madam  the  smile  is  your  own." 

"  Rosanna  1"  cried  the  lady,  "  this  is  flattery  ;  never  again 
speak  of  my  resemblance  to  any  one,  especially  to  a  child  of 
that  age.  It  offends,  it  pains  me  1" 

"I  did  not  think  to  offend,  madam  ;  the  little  girl  is  so 
pretty — how  could  I  ?" 

Ada  did  not  heed  her  ;  she  was  gazing  earnestly  on  the  little 
girl.  The  smile  had  left  her  face,  and  this  made  a  correspond 
ing  change  in  the  sensitive  child.  She  felt  as  if  some  offence 
had  been  given,  else  why  should  the  lady  look  into  her  eyes 
with  such  earnest  sadness  ? 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

The  question  was  given  in  a  low  and  hesitating  voice. 

"Julia — Julia  Warren." 

10* 


226  FASHION      AND-    FAMINE. 

4 

That  is  enough.     Rosanna,  never  speak  in  this  way  again  !" 

"  Never,  if  madam  desires  it.  But  the  flowers  :  see  what 
quantities  the  little  thing  has  brought.  No  wonder  she  was 
late — such  a  load." 

"  True,  we  were  waiting  for  the  flowers  ;  here,  fill  my  bou 
quet  holder — the  choicest,  remember — and  let  every  blossom 
be  fragrant." 

Rosanna  took  a  bouquet-holder,  whose  delicate  network  of 
gold  seemed  too  fragile  for  all  the  jewels  with  which  it  was 
enriched,  and  kneeling  upon  the  floor,  began  to  arrange  a  clus 
ter  of  flowers.  Her  active  fingers  had  just  wound  the  last 
crimson  and  white  roses  together,  when  a  footman  knocked  at 
the  door.  She  started  up,  and  went  to  see  what  was  wanted. 

"Madam,  the  company  are  arriving  j  two  carriages  have  set 
down  their  loads  .already." 

Ada  had  been  too  long  in  society  for  this  announcement  to 
confuse  or  hurry  her,  had  no  other  cause  of  excitement 
arisen  ;  as  it  was,  the  supeib  repose,  usual  to  her  manner,  was 
disturbed. 

"  Who  are  they?  have  you  seen  them  before?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  madam,  often." 

"  No  stranger — no  gentleman  who  never  came  before — you 
<./e  certain?" 

"  None,  madam." 

There  was  something  more  in  this  than  the  usual  anxiety  of 
•*.  hostess  to  receive  her  guestr. 

"  I  am  insane  to  loiter  here,"  she  murmured,  drawing  on  her 
gloves  ;  "  he  might  come  and  I  not  there  ;  for  the  universe  I 
would  not  miss  liis  first  look.  The  bouquet,  Rosanna,  and  hand 
kerchief — where  is  my  handkerchief  ?" 

"  Is  this  it,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Julia,  raising  a  soft  mass  of  gossa 
mer  cambric  and  costl/  lace  from  the  carpet,  where  it  had 
fallen. 

This  drew  Ada's  notice  once  more  to  the  child. 

"Oh  I  I  had  forgotteh,"  she  said,  going  back  to  the  toilet 
and  taking  up  a  purse  that  lay  among  the  jewel  cases ;  "1 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  227 

v 

have  not  time  to  count  it  ;  take  the  money,  but  some  day  you 
must  bring  back  the  purse — remember," 

She  took  her  bouquet  hastily  from  the  waiting-maid,  and  went 
out,  leaving  the  purse  in  Julia's  hand.  After  crossing  the  bou 
doir,  she  turned  back. 

"  Remember,  the  flowers  are  for  these  rooms,"  she  said, 
addressing  the  maid,  and  waving  her  hand,  with  a  motion  that 
indicated  the  bed-chamber  and  boudoir.  "Let  me  find  them 
everywhere." 

With  this  command,  she  disappeared,  leaving  the  Hoors  open 
behind  her. 

Julia  drew  a  deep  breath,  as  the  wave  of  her  garments  was 
lost  in  descending  the  stairs  ;  turning  sorrowfully  away,  her 
eyes  fell  upon  the  purse;  several  gold  pieces  gleamed  through 
the  crimson  net  work. 

"  What  shall  I  do — these  cannot  be  all  mine  ?  the  flowers  did 
not  cost  half  so  much." 

"  No  matter,"  was  the  cheerful  reply;  "she  gave  it  to  you. 
It  is  her  way;  keep  it." 

The  child  still  hesitated. 

"  If  you  think  it  is  not  all  right,  say  so  when  you  bring  back 
the  purse,"  said  the  maid,  good  naturedly.  "Who  knows  but 
it  may  prove  a  fairy  gift  ?  I'm  sure  her  presents  often  do." 

Julia  was  not  quite  convinced,  even  by  this  kind  prophecy. 
Still,  she  had  no  choice  but  obedience,  and  so,  bidding  pretty 
Rosanna  a  gentle  good  night,  she  stole  through  the  boudoir  and 
away  through  the  front  entrance,  for  she  knew  of  no  other ;  and 
folding  her  shawl  closer,  as  she  encountered  crowds  of  brilliantly 
dressed  people  she  passed  through  the  vestibule. 


228  FASHION      AND      FAMINE 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE     FORGED     CHECK. 

Secure  in  undiscovered  crime 

The  callous  soul  grows  bold  at  length. 
Stern  justice  sometimes  bides  her  time, 

But  strikes  at  last  with  double  strength. 

LEICESTER  went  to  the  Astor  House  after  his  marriage,  for 
though  he  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  Mrs.  Gordon's  fancy 
ball,  which  was  turning  the  fashionable  world  half  crazy,  mat 
ters  more  important  demanded  his  attention.  Premeditating 
a  crime  which  might  bring  its  penalty  directly  upon  his  own 
person,  he  had  made  arrangements  to  evade  all  possible  chance 
of  this  result,  by  embarking  at  once  for  Europe  with  his  falsely 
married  bride.  In  order  to  prepare  funds  for  this  purpose,  the 
project  for  which  Robert  Otis  had  been  so  long  in  training,  had 
been  that  day  put  in  action.  The  old  copy-book,  with  its  mass 
of  evidence,  was,  as  he  supposed,  safe  in  Robert's  apartment. 
The  check,  forged  with  marvellous  accuracy,  which  we  have  seen 
placed  in  his  letter  case,  passed  that  morning  into  the  hands  of 
his  premeditated  victim,  and  at  night  the  youth  was  to  meet 
him  with  the  money.  Thus  everything  seemed  secure.  True, 
his  own  hands  had  signed  the  check,  but  Robert  had  presented 
it  at  the  bank,  he  would  draw  the  money.  When  the  fraud 
became  known,  his  premises  would  be  searched,  and  there  was  the 
old  copy-book  bearing  proofs  of  such  practice  in  penmanship  as 
would  condemn  any  one.  Over  and  over  again  might  the  very 
signature  of  that  forged  check  be  found  in  the  pages  of  this 
book,  on  scraps  of  loose  paper,  and  even  on  other  checks  bear 
ing  the  same  imprint,  and  on  the  same  paper.  With  proof  so 
strong  against  the  youth,  how  was  suspicion  to  reach  Leicester  ? 
Would  the  simple  word  of  an  accused  lad  be  taken  ?  And 
what  other  evidence  existed  ?  None — none.  It  was  a  fiend 
ishly  woven  plot,  and  at  'every  point  seemed  faultless.  Still 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  229 

Leicester  was  ill  at  ease.  The  consciousness  that  the  act  of 
this  day  had  placed  him  within  possible  reach  of  the  law,  was 
unpleasant  to  a  man  in  whom  prudence  almost  took  the  place 
of  conscience.  The  hour  had  arrived,  but  Robert  was  not  at 
Leicester's  chamber  when  he  returned.  This  made  the  evil 
doer*  anxious  and  restless.  He  walked  the  room,  he  leaned 
from  the  window  and  looked  out  upon  the  crowd  below.  He 
drank  off  glass  after  glass  of  wine,  and  for  once  suffered  all  the 
fierce  tortures  of  dread  and  suspense  which  he  had  so  ruthlessly 
inflicted  on  others. 

At  this  time  Robert  Otis  was  in  the  building,  waiting  fur 
Jacob  Strong.  That  strange  personage  came  at  last,  but  more 
agitated  than  Robert  had  ever  seen  him.  Well  he  might  be  ; 
an  hour  before  he  had  left  Leicester's  wretched  bride  but  half 
conscious  of  her  misery,  and  making  heart-rending  struggles  to 
disbelieve  the  wrong  that  had  been  practised  upon  her.  In  an 
hour  more  ho  was  to  conduct  her  where  she  would  learn  all 
the  sorrow  of  her  destiny.  Jacob  had  a  feeling  heart,  and 
these  thoughts  gave  him  more  pain  .than  any  one  would  have 
deemed  possible. 

"  Here  is  the  money ;  go  down  at  once  and  give  it  to  hinx;  I 
heard  his  step  in  the  chamber,"  he  said,  addressing  Robert. 
"  The  count  is  correct,  I  drew  it  myself  from  the  bank  this 
morning." 

"  Tell  me,  is  this  money  yours  ?"  questioned  the  youth,  "  I 
would  do  nothing  in  the  dark." 

"  You  are  right,  boy  ;  no,  the  money  is  not  mine,  I  am  not 
worth  half  the  sum.  I  have  no  time  for  a  long  story,  but  there 
is  one — a  lady,  rich  beyond  anything  you  ever  dreamed  of — • 
who  takes  a  deep  interest  in  this  bad  man." 

"  What,  Florence — Miss  Craft  ?"  exclaimed  Robert. 

"  No,  an  older  and  still  more  noble  victim.  I  had  but  to 
tell  her  the  money  would  be  used  for  him,  and,  behold,  ten 
thousand  dollars — the  sum  he  thought  enough  to  pay  for  3  our 
eternal  ruin.  My  poor  nephew  !" 

"  Nephew,  did  you  say,  nephew,  Jacob  ?" 


230  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Yes,  call  me  Jacob — Jacob  Strong — Uncle  Jacob — call  me 
anything  you  like,  for  I  have  loved  you,  I  have  tried  you — kiss 
me  !  kiss  me  !  I  haven't  had  you  in  my  arms  since  you  were 
a  baby — and  I  want  something  to  warm  my  heart.  I  never 
thought  it  could  ache  as  it  has  to-night." 

"  Uncle  Jacob — my  mother's  only  brother — I  do  not  under 
stand  it,  but  to  know  this  is  enough  I" 

The  youth  flung  himself  upon  Jacob's  bosom,  and  for  a 
moment  was  almost  crushed  in  those  huge  arms. 

"  Now  that  has  done  me  lots  of  good  !"  exclaimed  the  uncle, 
brushing  a  tear  from  his  eyes  with  the  cuff  of  his  coat,  a  school 
boy  habit  that  came  back  with  the  first  powerful  home  feeling. 
"  Now  go  down  and  feed  the  serpent  with  this  money.  You 
won't  be  afraid  to  mind  me  now." 

"  No,  if  you  were  to  order  me  to  jump  out  of  the  window  I 
would  do  it." 

"  You  might,  you  might,  for  I  would  be  at  the  bottom  to 
•,atch  you  in  my  arms  !  Here  is  the  money,  I  will  be  in  the 
Jrawing-room  as  a  witness  :  it  won't  be  the  first  time,  I  can  tell 
fou" 

Leicester  started  and  turned  pale,  even  to  his  lips,  as  Robert 
mtered  his  chamber,  for  a  sort  of  nervous  dread  possessed  him ; 
ind  in  order  to  escape  from  this,  his  anxiety  to  obtain  means 
df  leaving  the  country  became  intense.  He  looked  keenly  at 
Robert,  but  waited  for  him  to  speak.  The  youth  was  also 
pale,  but  resolute  and  self-possessed. 

"  The  bank  was  closed  before  I  got  there,"  he  said,  in  a  quiet, 
business  tone,  placing  a  small  leathern  box  on  the  table,  and  un 
locking  it,  "  but  I  found  a  person  who  was  willing  to  negotiate 
the  check.  He  will  not  want  the  money  at  once,  and  so  it 
saves  him  the  trouble  of  making  a  deposit." 

Leicester  could  with  difficulty  suppress  the  exclamation  of 
relief  that  sprang  to  his  lips,  as  Robert  opened  the  box,  reveal 
ing  it  half  full  of  gold  ;  but  remembering  that  any  exhibition 
of  pleasure  would  be  out  of  place,  he  observed,  with  apparent 
composure — 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  231 

"  You  have  counted  it,  I  suppose  ?  Were  you  obliged  to 
exchange  bills  with  any  of  the  brokers,  as  I  directed,  to  get  the 
gold  ?" 

"  No,  it  was  paid  as  you  see  it,"  answered  the  youth,  moving 
toward  the  door;  for  his  heart  so  rose  against  the  man,  that  he 
could  not  force  himself  to  endure  the  scene  a  moment  longer 
than  was  necessary. 

"  Stay,  take  the  box  with  you,"  said  Leicester,  pouring  the 
gold  into  a  drawer  of  his  desk  ;  "  I  will  not  rob  you  of  that." 

Robert  understood  the  whole;  a  faint  smile  curved  his  lip, 
and  taking  the  box,  he  went  out. 

"  No  evidence — nothing  but  pure  gold,"  muttered  Leicester, 
exultingly,  as  he  closed  the  drawer.  "It  is  well  for  you,  my 
young  friend,  that  the  holder  of  that  precious  document  does 
not  wish  to  present  his  check  at  once.  Liberty  is  sweet  to  the 
young,  and  this  secures  a  few  more  days  of  its  enjoyment  for 
you — and  for  me  !  Ah,  there  everything  happens  most  fortu 
nately.  Why,  a  good  steamer  will  put  us  half  over  the  Atlantic 
before  this  little  mistake  is  suspected." 

Leicester  was  a  changed  man  after  this;  his  spirits  rose  witli 
unnatural  exhilaration. 

"Now  for  this  grand  ball,"  he  said  aloud,  surveying  his  fine 
person  in  the  glass.  "  Surely  a  man's  wedding  garments  ought 
to  be  fancy  dress  enough.  Another  pair  of  gloves,  though. 
This  comes  of  temptation.  I  must  finger  the  gold,  forsooth." 

The  ruthless  man^  smiled,  and  muttered  these  broken  frag 
ments  of  thought,  as  he  took  off  the  scarcely  soiled  gloves,  and 
replaced  them  with  a  pair  still  more  spotlessly  white.  He  was 
a  long  time  fitting  them  on  his  hand.  He  fastidiously  re 
arranged  other  portions  of  his  dress.  All  sense  of  the  great 
fraud,  that  ought  to  have  borne  his  soul  to  the  earth,  had  left 
him  when  the  gold  appeared.  You  could  see,  by  his  broken 
words,  how  completely  lighter  fancies  had  replaced  the  black 
deed. 

"This  Mrs.  Gordon — I  wonder  if  she  really  is  the  creature 
they  represent  her  to  be.  If  it  were  not  for  this  voyage  to 


232  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Europe,  now,  one  might — no,  no,  there  is  no  chance  now;  but 
I'll  have  a  sight  at  her."  Thus  muttering  and  smiling,  Leices 
ter  left  the  hotel. 

The  evening  was  very  beautiful,  and  Leicester  always  loved 
to  enter  a  fashionable  drawing-room  after  the  guests  had  assem 
bled.  He  reflected  that  a  quiet  walk  would  bring  him  to  Mrs. 
Gordon's  mansion  about  the  time  he  thought  most  desirable, 
and  sauntered  on,  resolved,  at  any  rate,  not  to  reach  his  des 
tination  too  early.  But  sometimes  he  fell  into  thought,  and 
then  his  pace  became  unconsciously  hurried.  He  reached  the 
upper  part  of  the  city  earlier  than  he  had  intended,  and  had 
taken  out  his  watch  before  a  lighted  window,  to  convince  him 
self  of  the  time,  when  a  timid  voice  addressed  him — 

"  Sir,  will  you  please  tell  me  the  name  of  this  street  ?" 

He  turned,  and  saw  the  little  girl  whom  he  had  forced  to 
become  a  witness  to  his  marriage.  She  shrunk  back,  terrified, 
on  recognizing  him. 

"  I  did  not  know — I  did  not  mean  it,"  she  faltered  out. 

"  What, -have  you  lost  your  way  ?"  said  Leicester,  in  a  voice 
that  made  her  shiver,  though  it  was  low  and  sweet  enough. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  I  can  find  it  1" 

"Where  do  you  live? — oh,  I  remember.  Well,  as  I  have 
time  enough,  what  if  I  walk  a  little  out  of  my  way,  and  see 
that  nothing  harms  you  ?" 

"No,  no — the  trouble  !" 

"  Never  mind  the  trouble.  You  shall  show  me  where  you 
live,  pretty  one  ;  then  I  shall  be  certain  where  to  find  you 
again." 

Still  Julia  hesitated. 

"  Besides,"  said  Leicester,  taking  out  his  purse,  "  you  forget, 
I  have  not  paid  for  robbing  your  basket  of  all  those  pretty 
flowers." 

"No!"  answered  the  child,  now  quite  resolutely.  "I  am 
paid.  The  poor  young  lady  is  welcome  to  them." 

Leicester  laughed.    "  The  poor  young  lady! — my  own  pretty 
bride  !     Well,  I  like  that." 
\ 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  233 

Julia  walked  on.  She  hoppd  that  he  would  forget  his  ob 
ject,  or  only  intended  to  frighten  her.  But  he  kept  by  her 
side,  and  was  really  amused  by  the  terror  inflicted  on  the  child. 
He  had  half  an  hour's  time  on  his  hand— how  could  he  kill  it 
more  pleasantly  ?  Besides,  he  really  was  anxious  to  know  with 
certainty  where  the  young  creature  lived.  She  was  one  of  his 
witnesses.  She  had,  in  a  degree,  become  connected  with  his 
fate.  Above  all,  she  was  terrified  to  death,  and  like  Nero, 
Leicester  would  have  amused  himself  with  torturing  flies,  if  no 
larger  or  fiercer  animal  presented  itself.  His  evil  longing  to 
give  pain  was  insatiable  as  the  Roman  tyrant's,  and  more  cruel ; 
for  while  Nero  contented  himself  with  physical  agony,  Leicester 
appeased  his  craving  spirit  with  nothing  but  keen  mental  feeling. 
The  Roman  emperor  would  sometimes  content  himself  with  a 
fiddle;  but  the  music  that  Leicester  loved  best  was  the  wail  of 
sensitive  heart-strings. 

"  I  live  here,"  said  Julia,  stopping  short,  before  a  low,  old 
house,  in  a  close  side  street,  breathless  with  the  efforts  she  had 
made  to  escape  her  tormentor.  "  Do  not  go  any  farther, 
Grandpa  never  likes  to  see  strangers." 

"  Go  on — go  on,"  answered  Leicester,  in  a  tone  that  "was 
jeeringly  good-natured  ;  "  grandpa  will  be  delighted." 

Julia  ran  desperately  down  the  area  steps.  She  longed  to 
close  the  basement  door*  after  her  and  hold  it  against  the  intru 
der,  but  as  this  idea  flashed  across  her  mind,  Leicester  stood  by 
her  side  in  the  dark  hall.  She  ran  forward  and  opened  the  door 
of  that  poor  basement  room  which  was  her  home.  .  Still  he 
kept  by  her  side.  The  basement  was  full  of  that  dusky  gloom 
which  a  handful  of  embers  had  power  to  shed  through  the  dark 
ness;  for  the  old  people,  whose  outlines  were  faintly  seen  upon  the 
hearth,  were  still  too  poor  for  a  prodigal  waste  of  light  when  no 
work  was  to  be  done  by  it. 

"  Is  it  you,  darling,  and  so  out  of  breath?"  said  the  voice  of 
an  old  man,  who  rose  and  began  to  grope  with  his  hand  upon 
the  mantel-piece.  "  What  kept  you  so  long  ?  poor  grandma  has 
been  in  a  terrible  way  about  it."  While  he  spoke,  the  grating 


234  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

of  a  match  that  would  not  readily  ignite,  was  heard  against 
the  chimney  piece. 

"The  gentleman,  grandpa — here  is  a  gentleman.  He  would 
come  I"  cried  the  child,  artlessly. 

This  seemed  to  startle  the  old  man.  The  match  would  not  kin 
dle  ;  he  stooped  down  and  touched  it  to  a  live  ember;  as  he  rose 
again  the  pale  blue  flames  fell  upon  the  face  of  his  wife,  and  rose 
to  his  own  features.  The  illumination  was  but  for  a  moment — then 
the  wick  began  to  fuse  slowly  into  flame,  but  it  was  nearly  half 
a  minute  before  the  miserable  candle  gave  out  its  full  complement 
of  light.  The  old  man  turned  toward  the  open  door,  shading 
the  candle  with  his  hand. 

"  Where,  child  ?  I  see  no  gentleman." 

Julia  looked  around.  A  moment  before,  Leicester  had  stood 
at  her  side.  "  He  is  gone — he  is  gone,"  she  exclaimed,  spring 
ing  forward.  "  Oh,  grandma — oh,  grandpa,  how  he  did  frighten 
rnej  it  was  the  man  I  saw  on  the  wharf,  that  day  !" 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

NIGHT     AND     MORNING. 

We  think  to  conquer  circumstance,  and  sometimes  win 

A  hold  upon  events  that  seemeth  power. 
But  nothing  stable  waiteth  upon  sin ; 

God  holds  the  cords  of  life,  and  in  an  hour 
The  strongest  fabric  built  by  human  mind 

Falls  with  a  crash,  and  leaves  a  wreck  behjnd. 

SPLENDID  beyond  anything  hitherto  known  in  American  life, 
was  the  ball,  of  which  our  readers  have  obtained  but  partial 
glimpses.  At  least  a  dozen  rooms,  some  of  them  palatial  in 
dimensions,  others  bijoux  of  elegance,  were  thrown  open  to  the 
brilliant  throng  that  had  begun  to  assemble  when  the  flower-girl 
left  the  mansioD  The  conservatory  was  filled  with  blossoming 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  235 

plants,  and  lighted  entirely  by  lamps,  placed  in  alabaster  vases,  or 
swinging-like  moons,,  from  the  waves  of  crystal  that  formed  the 
roof.  Masses  of  South  American  plants  sheeted  the  sides  with 
blossoms.  Passion  flowers  crept  up  the  crystal  roof,  and 
drooped  their  starry  blossoms  among  the  lamps.  Trees,  rich 
with  the  light  feathery  foliage  peculiar  to  the  tropics,  bent  over 
and  sheltered  the  blossoming  plants.  An  aquatic  lily  floated 
in  the  marble  basin  of  a  tiny  fountain,  spreading  its  broad 
green  leaves  on  the  water,  and  sheltering  a  host  of  arrowy, 
little  gold-fish,  that  flashed  in  and  out  from  their  shadows.  The 
air  was  redolent  with  heliotrope,  daphnes,  and  cape-jessamines. 
Soft  mosses  crept  around  the  marble  basin,  and  dropped  downward 
to  the  tesselated  floor.  It  was  like  entering  fairy  land,  as  you 
came  into  this  star-lit  wilderness  of  flowers,  from  a  noble 
picture-gallery,  which  divided  it  from  the  reception  room.  It 
was  one  of  Dunlap's  master-pieces.  No  artist  ever  arranged  a 
more  noble  picture — no  peri  ever  found  a  lovelier  paradise. 
The  silken  curtains  that  divided  the  picture-gallery  from  the 
reception  rooms  were  drawn  back  ;  thus  a  vista  was  formed 
down  which  the  eye  wandered  till  the  perspective  lost  itself  in 
the  star-lighted  masses  of  foliage  ;  and  on  entering  the  first  draw 
ing-room,  which  was  flooded  with  gas-light,  a  scene  was 
presented  that  no  European  palace  could  rival,  save  in  extent. 
Each  of  the  tall,  stained  windows,  had  a  corresponding  recess, 
filled  with  mirrors  that  multiplied  and  reflected  back  every 
beautiful  object  within  its  range.  Fresco  paintings  gleamed 
from  the  ceilings,  but  so  delicately  managed  and  enwrought  in 
the  light  golden  scrolls,  that  all  over-gorgeousness  was  avoided. 
Each  room  possessed  distinct  colors,  and  had  its  own  style  of 
ornament  ;  but  natural  contrasts  were  so  strictly  maintained, 
and  harmonies  so  managed,  that  the  rooms,  when  all  thrown 
open,  presented  one  brilliant  whole,  that  might  have  been  stud 
ied  like  the  work  of  a  great  artist,  and  always  found  to  present 
new  beauties. 

The  ''ooms  filled  rapidly.     The  fancy  dresses  gave  new  eclat 
to  th'   rooms.     No  royal  court  day  ever  presented  a  scene  of 


236  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

greater  magnificence.  The  flash  of  jewels — the  wave  of  feathers 
• — the  glitter  of  brocades,  had  something  regal  in  it,  quite  at 
variance  with  the  simple  republican  habits  with  which  our 
young  country  began  its  career  among  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
But  in  all  this  dazzling  throng,  our  story  deals  more  particularly 
with  the  four  persons  toward  whom  destiny  was  making  rapid 
strides  through  all  this  glitter  and  gaiety. 

William  Leicester  enured  among  the  latest  guests.  The 
evening  had  been  so  full  of  events,  that  even  his  iron  nerves 
were  shaken,  and  he  entered  the  mansion  with  pale  cheeks  and 
glittering  eyes,  as  if  conscious  that  he  was  rushing  forward  to 
his  fate. 

What  was  it  that  prompted  the  tantalizing  wish  to  follow 
that  young  girl  home,  till  she  led  him  into  the  presence  of  that 
old  couple,  cowering  over  the  fire  in  that  dark  basement  ?  What 
evil  spirit  was  crowding  events  so  closely  around  him  ?  He 
began  to  feel  a  sort  of  self-distrust  ;  something  like  superstition 
crept  over  him,  and  he  panted  to  place  the  Atlantic  between 
himself  and  all  these  haunting  perplexities. 

A  few  distinguished  persons  had  been  allowed  to  attend  the 
ball  in  citizens'  dress,  and  among  these,  was  Leicester,  who 
appeared  in  the  elegant  but  unostentatious  suit  worn  at  his 
wedding  ceremony. 

"  Why,  Leicester,  you  are  pale  !  Has  anything  happened  ; 
or  is  it  only  the  effect  of  that  white  vest  ?"  said  a  young  Turk, 
who  stood  near  the  entrance,  removing  his  admiring  eyes 
from  the  point  of  his  own  embroidered  slipper,  to  regard  his 
friend. 

"  Pale  I  No,  I  am  only  tired,  making  preparations  for  Eu 
rope,  you  know." 

"A  great  bore,  isn't  it?"  answered  the  young  man,  adjusting 
his  cashmere  scarf.  "  Isn't  Mrs.  Gordon  beautiful  to-night  ; 
the  handsomest  woman  in  the  room,  not  to  speak  of  uncounted 
pyramids  !  She'd  be  a  catch — even  for  you,  Leicester." 

"She  must  have  demolished  some  of  her  pyramids,  before  this 
paradise  was  created,  I  fancy,"  answered  Leicester,  looking 


I  FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  237 

d#wn  the  vista  of    open  rooms,  now  crowded  with  life  and 
beau I y. 

"Yes,  three  at  least,"  replied  the  juvenile  Turk,  planting  one    \ 
foot  forward  on  the  carpet,   that  he  might  admire  the  flow 
of  his  ample  trousers  ;  "  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  never 
paid  for  a  place  like  this." 

"  So  you,  young  gentleman,  set  fifty  thousand  down  as  a  pyr 
amid*.  ]Sow,  what  if  a  lady  chances  to  have  only  the  half  of 
that  sum ;  how  do  you  estimate  her  ?" 

"Twenty-five  thousand  !"  repeated  the  exquisite;  "a  woman 
with  no  more  than  that  isn't  worth  estimating  ;  at  any  rate,  till 
after  a  fellow  gets  to  be  an  old  fogy  of  two  or  three  and 
twenty." 

A  quiet,  mocking  smile  curved  Leicester's  lip.    Though  rather   / 
sensitive  regarding  his  own  age,  he  was  really  amused  by  this  / 
specimen  of  Young  America. 

"So,  this  widow,  with  so  many  pyramids — you  think  she 
would  be  a  match  worth  looking  after.  What  if  I  make  the 
effort  ?" 

"If  you  were  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  younger,  it  might 
do." 

Leicester  laughed  outright. 

"  Well,  as  I  am  too  old  for  a  rival,  perhaps  you  will  show 
me  where  the  lady  is  ;  I  have  never  seen  her  yet." 

"  What — never  seen  Mrs.  Gordon,  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Gordon! 
I  thought  you  old  chaps  were  keener  on  the  scent.  I  know  half 
a  hundred  young  gentlemen  dead  in  for  it." 

"Then  there  is  certainly  no  chance  for  me." 

"  I  should  rather  think  not,"  replied  the  youth,  smiling  com 
placently  at  his  own  reflection  in  an  opposite  mirror  ;  "  especi 
ally  without  costume.  A  dress  like  this,  now,  is  a  sort  of  thing 
that  takes  with  women." 

Leicester  was  getting  weary  of  the  youth. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  you  will  not  aid  me,  I  must  find  the 
lady  myself." 

"  Oh,  wait  till  the  crowd  leaves  us  an  opening.     There,  the 


238  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

• 

music  strikes  up — they  are  off  for  the,  waltz  ;  now  you  have  a 
good  view ;  isn't  she  superb  ?" 

For  one  moment  a  cloud  came  over  Leicester's  eyes.  He 
swept  his  gloved  hand  over  them,  and  now  he  saw  clearly. 

"  Which — which  is  Mrs.  Gordon  ?"  he  said  in  a  sharp  voice, 
that  almost  startled  the  young  exquisite  out  of  his  oriental 
propriety 

"  Why,  how  dull  you  are — as  if  there  ever  existed  another 
woman  on  earth  to  be  mistaken  for  her." 

"  Is  that  the  woman  ?"  questioned  Leicester,  almost  extend 
ing  his  arm  toward  a  lady  dressed  as  Ceres,  who  stood  near  the 
door  of  an  adjoining  room. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  Come,  let  me  present  you,  while  there  is 
a  chance,  though  how  the  deuce  you  got  here  without  a  pre 
vious  introduction,  I  cannot  tell.  Come,  she  is  looking  this 
way." 

"  Not  yet,"  answered  Leicester,  drawing  aside,  where  he  was 
less  liable  to  observation. 

"  Why,  how  strangely  you  look  all  at  once.  Caught  with 
the  first  glance,  ha  ?"  persisted  his  tormentor 

Leicester  attempted  to  smile,  but  his  lips  refused  to  move. 
He  would  have  spoken,  but  for  once  speech  left  him. 

"  Come,  come,  1  am  engaged  for  the  next  polka." 

"  Excuse  me,"  answered  Leicester,  drawing  his  proud  figure 
to  its  full  height ;  "  I  was  only  jesting  ;  Mrs.  Gordon  and  I  are 
old  acquaintances." 

"  Then  I  will  go  find  my  partner,"  cried  the  Turk,  half  terri 
fied  by  the  flash  of  those  fierce  eyes. 

"  Do,"  said  Leicester,  leaning  upon  the  slab  of  a  music  table 
that  stood  near. 

And  now,  with  a  fiend  at  his  heart  and  fire  in  his-eye,  William 
Leicester  stood  regarding  his  wife. 

Ada  had  given  this  ball  for  a  purpose.  It  was  here,  sur 
rounded  by  all  the  pomp  and  state  secured  by  position  and  im 
mense  wealth,  that  she  .intended  once  more  to  meet  her  husband. 
What  hidden  motive  lay  in  the  depths  of  her  mind,  I  do  not 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  239 

know.  Perhaps — for  love  like  hers  will  descend  to  strange  , 
humiliations — she  expected  to  win  back  a  gleam  of  his  old 
tenderness,  by  the  magnificence  which  she  knew  he  loved  so  well. 
Perhaps  she  really  intended  to  startle  him  by  her  queenly 
presence,  load  him  with  scornful  reproaches,  and  so  separate 
forever.  This,  probably,  was  the  reason  she  gave  to  her  own 
heart;  but  I  still  think  a  dream  of  reconciliation  slept  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all. 

At  another  time  Ada  would  have  been  dressed  with  less 
magnificence  under  her  own  roof:  for  her  taste  was  perfect, 
and  the  elegant  simplicity  of  her  style  was  at  all  times  remark 
able.  But  now  she  had  an  object  to  accomplish — a  proud  soul 
to  humble  to  the  dust ;  and  she  loaded  herself  with  pomp,  as  a 
warrior  encases  himself  in  armor  just  before  a  battle. 

The  character  of  Ceres,  in  which  she  appeared,  was  pecu 
liarly  adapted  to  the  perfection  of  her  beauty  and  the  natural 
grace  of  her  person.  In  order  to  increase  the  magnifi 
cence  of  this  costume,  she  had  ordered  all  her  jewels  to  be  reset 
at  Ball  &  Black's,  in  wreaths,  bouquets,  and  clusters,  adapted 
to  the  character ;  and  as  Leicester  gazed  upon  her  from  the 
distance,  his  eyes  were  absolutely  dazzled  with  flashes  of  rain 
bow  light  that  followed  every  movement  of  her  person. 

Her  over-skirt  of  fine  Brussels  point  was  gathered  up  in 'soft 
clouds  from  the  amber  satin  dress,  by  clusters  of  fruit,  grass, 
and  leaves,  all  of  precious  stones.    Cherries,  the  size  of  life,  cut 
from  glowing  carbuncles  ;   grapes  in  amethyst  clusters,  or  am-    / 
ber  hued,  from  the  Oriental  topaz ;  stems  of  ruby  currants ; 
crab-apples,  cut  from  the  red  coral  of  Naples ;  with  wheat  ears,  / 
barbed  with  gold,   and   set   thick  with   diamond  grain ;   all 
mingled  with  leaves  and  bending  grass,  lighted  with  emeralds, 
were  grouped  among  the  gossamer  lace,  whence  the  light  came 
darting  forth  with  a  thousand  sunset  glories. 

Her  fair,  round  arms  were  exposed  almost  to  the  shoulder, 
where  a  quantity  of  soft  lace,  that  fell  like  a  mist  across  her 
bosom,  was  gathered  up  with  clusters  of  fruit-like  jewels.  Her 
hair,  arranged  after  the  fashion  of  a  Greek  statue,  flowed 


240  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

back  from  the  head  in  waves  and  ringlets,  and  was  crowned  by 
a  garland  of  jewels  that  shot  rays  of  tinted  light  through  all 
her  golden  tresses.  The  choicest  jewels  she  possessed  had  been 
reserved  for  this  garland,  wreathed  in  both  fruit  and  flowers. 
Here  diamond  fuschias,  veined  with  rubies,  and  forget  me- 
nots  of  torquoise,  each  with  a  yellow  pearl  at  the  heart,  were 
grouped  with  diamond  wheat  ears  and  stems  of  currants, 
some  heavy  with  ruby  fruit,  others  beset  with  yellow  diamonds. 
The  grape  leaves  that  fell  around  her  temples  were  green 
with  emeralds,  and  a  single  cluster  of  cherries,  formed  from 
Carbuncles,  that  seemed  to  have  a  drop  of  wine  floating  at 
the  heart,  drooped  over 'her  white  forehead.  Great  diamond 
drops  were  scattered  like  dew  over  these  dazzling  clusters,  and 
fell  away  down  the  ringlets  of  her  hair. 

Ada  stood  beneath  the  blaze  of  a  chandelier,  that  poured  its 
light  over  the  singular  wreath,  and  struck  the  jewels  of  her 
girdle,  till  they  sent  it  back  in  broken  flashes.  Waves  of  lace 
were  gathered  beneath  this  girdle,  as  we  find  the  drapery 
around  those  antique  statues  of  Ceres,  still  existing  in  fragments 
at  Athens. 

Leicester  stood  motionless,  gazing  upon  his  wife.  Every  gem 
about  her  person  seemed  to  fix  its  value  upon  his  mind.  This 
surprise  had  overpowered  him  for  a  moment,  but  no  event  had 
the  power  to  disturb  him,  even  for  the  brief  time  he  had  been 
regarding  her. 

His  resolution  was  taken.  Self-possessed,  and,  but  for  a  wild 
brilliancy  of  the  eyes  and  a  slight  paleness  about  the  mouth, 
tranquil  as  if  they  had  parted  but  yesterday,  he  moved  down 
the  room. 

The  crowd  was  drawn  off  toward  the  dancing  saloon,  and  at 
that  moment  the  reception  room,  in  which  Ada  stood,  was 
somewhat  relieved  of  the  glittering  crowd  that  had  pressed 
around  her  but  a  moment  before. 

Still  several  persons  were  grouped  near  her,  glad  to  seize 
upon  every  disengaged  moment  of  the  hostess ;  for  never  in 
her  brightest  mood  had  she  been  half  so  brilliant  as  now.  Her 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  241 

lips  grew  red  with  the  flashes  of  wit  that  passed  through 
them.  Her  eyes  flashed  with  animation,  and  a  warm  scarlet 
flush  lay  upon  her  cheek,  burning  there  like  flame,  but  growing 
more  arid  more  brilliant  as  the  evening  wore  on.  Sometimes 
she  would  pause  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence,  and  look  searchingly 
in  the  crowd.  Then  a  frown  would  contract  her  forehead,  as 
if  the  jewelled  garland  were  beset  with  hidden  thorns  that 
pierced  her  temples  ;  but  when  reminded  of  this  her  smile  grew 
brilliant  again,  and  some  flash  of  wit  displaced  the  impression 
her  countenance  had  made  the  moment  before. 

She  had  just  made  some  laughing  reply  to  a  gentleman  who 
stood  near  her,  and  turning  away,  cast  another  of  those  anxious 
looks  over  the  room.  She  gave  a  faint  start ;  her  eye  flashed, 
and  drawing  her  form  up  to  its  full  height,  she  stood  with 
curved  lips  and  burning  cheeks,  ready  to  receive  her  husband. 
He  came  down  the  room,  slowly  moving  forward  with  his  usual 
noiseless  grace.  He  paused  now  and  then  as  the  crowd  pressed 
on  him,  and  it  was  a  full  minute  after  she  first  saw  him,  before 
he  approached  her  near  enough  to  speak. 

"My  dear  lady,  I  shall  never  forgive  myself  for  coming  so 
late,"  he  said,  reaching  forth  his  hand.  "  Why  did  not  your 
invitations  say  at  once  that  we  were  invited  to  paradise  ?" 

For  one  moment  Ada  turned  pale  and  lost  her  self-possession. 
The  audacious  coolness  of  the  man  astonished  her.  She  had 
expected  to  take  him  by  surprise,  and  promised  herself  the 
enjoyment  of  his  confusion  ;  but  before  his  speech  was  finished 
the  blood  rushed  to  her  cheek,  her  lips  grew  red  again,  and  her 
eyes  seemed  showering  fire  into  his.  He  had  taken  her  hand, 
while  speaking,  and  pressed  it  gently,  but  with  a  meaning  that 
aroused  all  the  pride  of  her  nature. 

Did  he  hope  to  practice  his  old  arts  upon  her  ?  Was  she  a 
school  girl  to  be  won  back  by  a  pressure  of  the  hand  and  frothy 
compliments  to  her  dwelling  ?  The  crafty  man  had  mistaken 
her  for  once.  She  withdrew  her  hand  with  a  laugh. 

"So  you  were  ignorant  that  the  goddess  of  plenty  reigned 
here." 

11 


242  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

There  was  meaning  in  the  light  words,  and  for  an  instant 
Leicester's  audacious  eyes  fell  beneath  the  glance  of  hers  ;  but 
he  recovered  himself  with  a  breath. 

"The  character  is  badly  chosen.  I  could  have  selected 
better." 

"What,  pray — what  would  you  have  selected?"  she  asked, 
with  breathless  haste. 

He  stooped  forward,  and  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  as  if  he 
had  been  uttering  a  compliment,  whispered  "A  Mobe." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  uttered,  more  than  the  words, 
stung  her. 

She  drew  back  with  a  suddenness  that  scattered  the  light  like 
sunbeams  from  her  jewelled  garland. 

"Everything  that  Mobe  loved  turned  to  stone.  In  that  we 
are  alike,"  she  said,  in  a  suppressed  voice  that  trembled  with 
feeling. 

He  bent  his  head  and  was  about  to  answer  in  the  same  under 
tone,  but  she  drew  back  with  a  low  defiant  laugh. 

"No — no.  It  is  a  sad  character,  and  I  have  long  since  done 
with  tears,"  she  answered,  turning  to  a  gay  group  that  had 
gathered  around  her,  "What  say  you,  gentlemen,  our  friend 
here  prefers  a  mournful  character  ;  do  I  look  like  a  woman  who 
ever  weeps?" 

"Not  unless  the  angels  weep,"  answered  one  of  the  group. 

"Angels  do  weep  when  they  leave  the  homes  assigned  to 
them,"  whispered  Leicester,  again  bending  towards  her,  "and 
it  is  fitting  that  they  should." 

She  did  not  recoil  that  time.  His  words  rather  stung  her 
into  strength,  and  strange  to  say,  Leicester  seemed  less  hateful 
to  her  while  uttering  these  covert  reproaches,  than  his  first 
adroit  compliment  had  rendered  him.  A  retort  was  on  her  lip, 
but  that  instant  a  group  came  in  from  the  dancing  saloon, 
laughing  and  full  of  excitement. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Gordon,  such  a  droll  character !"  cried  a  flower 
girl,  pressing  her  way. to  the  hostess  ;  "a  postman  with  bundles 
of  letters,  real  letters ;  you  never  saw  anything  like  it.  I'm 


FASHION     AND      FAMINE.  243 

sure  Mr.  Willis  and  some  other  poets  here,  that  I  could  point 
out,  have  had  a  hand  in  getting  up  this  mail,  for  some  of  the 
letters  are  full  of  delightful  poetry.  Only  look  here,  isn't  this 
sweet?" 

The  girl  held  up  an  open  paper,  in  which  half  a  dozen  lines 
of  poetry  were  visible. 

"Read  it  aloud — read  it  aloud,"  cried  several  voices  at  once. 
"No  one  has  secrets  here  !" 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  for  anything,"  answered  the  young  lady, 
tossing  the  flowers  about  in  her  basket,  with  a  simper  ;  "Mrs. 
Gordon  won't  insist,  I  am  sure. 

Ada  saw  what  was  expected  of  her,  and  held  the  letter  aloof, 
when  the  young  lady  made  feints  at  snatching  it  away. 

"But  what  if  Mrs.  Gordon  does  insist?"  she  said.  "The 
postman  has  no  business  to  bring  letters  here  that  are  not  for 
the  public  amusement." 

"  Well,  now,  isn't  it  too  bad,"  cried  the  flower  girl,  striving 
to  conceal  her  satisfaction  with  a  pout.  "  I  am  sure  it's  not  my 
fault." 

"  Read,  read/7  cried  voices  from  the  crowd. 

"  No,"  said  Ada,  weary  with  the  scene,  and  mischievously  in 
clined  to  punish  the  girl  for  her  affectation  ;  "all  amusement 
must  be  voluntary  here." 

The  young  lady  took  her  note  with  a  pout  that  was  genuine, 
this  time,  and  hid  it  in  her  basket. 

During  this  brief  scene,  Leicester  had  glided  from  the  room 
unobserved,  and  two  strange  characters  took  his  place.  This 
would  hardly  have  been  remarked  in  so  large  an  assembly,  but 
the  costumes  in  which  these  persons  appeared,  were  so  arranged 
that  they  amounted  to  a  disguise.  One  was  robed  as  Night, 
the  other  as  Morning  ;  but  the  cloud-like  drapery  that  fell 
around  them,  was  of  glossy,  Florence  silk,  which  allowed  them 
to  see  what  was  passing,  while  their  own  features  were  entirely 
concealed.  Neither  of  them  spoke,  and  their  presence  cast  a 
restraint  upon  the  crowd  close  around  the  hostess.  They 
seemed  conscious  of  this,  and  gradually  drew  back,  station^ 


244  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

ing  themselves  at  last  close  by  a  pillar,  that  separated  two 
rooms  directly  behind  Ada  and  the  group  that  surrounded  her. 

Leicester  had  only  been  to  the  gentleman's  dressing-room, 
which  was  at  that  hour  quite  empty.  He  seemed  hurried  and 
somewhat  agitated  on  entering.  Going  up  to  a  light  he  took  a 
letter-case  from  his  bosom,  and  hastily  shuffling  over  some  pa 
pers  it  contained,  selected  one  from  the  parcel.  He  opened 
this  hurriedly,  glanced  at  the  first  lines,  and  then  looked  around 
the  room,  as  if  in  search  of  something. 

Evidently  the  letters  and  poems  from  which  the  mo"k  post 
man  was  supplied,  had  been  arranged  there,  for  a  writing  ta 
ble  stood  in  one  corner  littered  with  pens,  fancy  note-paper  and 
envelopes. 

"How  fortunate,"  broke  from  Leicester,  as  he  saw  these  ac 
commodations  ;  and  he  began  to  search  among  the  envelopes  for 
one  of  the  size  he  wanted.  Having  accomplished  this,  he  placed 
the  paper  taken  from  his  letter-case  open  upon  the  table  ; 
and  the  light  of  a  wax  taper,  that  stood  ready  for  use,  revealed 
a  tress  of  hair  that  lay  curled  within  it. 

Leicester  pushed  the  curl  aside  with  his  finger,  while  he 
directed  the  envelope,  refering  to  the  paper  every  other  letter, 
as  if  to  compare  his  work  with  the  writing  it  contained. 

When  this  was  accomplished  and  his  hand  removed,  the  light 
fell  upon  his  own  name  written  in  a  feminine  running  hand. 
He  smiled  as  if  satisfied  with  the  address,  replaced  the  lock  of 
hair  in  the  paper,  and  folded  both  in  the  envelope,  which  he 
carefully  sealed.  He  left  the  room  with  a  crafty  smile  on  his 
lip,  and  beckoned  to  an  attendant. 

"  Take  this  and  give  it  to  the  postman  you  will  find  some 
where  in  the  second  drawing-room.  Tell  him  Mrs.  Gordon 
wishes  him  to  deliver  it  when  she  is  present  ;  you  understand." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  French  servant,  charmed  with  a  mission 
so  congenial  to  his  taste,  "  I've  had  a  good  many  to  carry 
down  before  to-night." 

"  Do  this  quietly — you  understand — and  here  is  something 
for  the  postage  " 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  245 

"  Monsieur  is  magnificent,"  said  the  man,  taking  the  piece 
of  gold  with  a  profound  bow.  "  He  shall  see  how  invisible  I 
shall  become." 

Leicester  stole  back  to  the  reception  rooms  again,  and  glided 
into  the  group  that  still  surrounded  the  hostess,  unobserved 
as  he  thought ;  but  those  who  watched  Ada  closely,  would 
have  seen  the  apathy,  that  had  crept  over  her  during  his 
absence,  suddenly  flung  off,  while  her  manner  and  look  became 
wildly  brilliant  once  more.  At  this  moment  Night  and  Morning 
drew  closer  to  the  pillar,  and  sheltered  themselves  behind  it. 

"  Here  he  comes — here  comes  the  postman,"  cried  half  a 
dozen  young  ladies  at  once;  "who  will  get  a  letter  now? 
Mrs.  Gordon,  of  course  1" 

One  of  the  first  lawyers  of  the  State  entered  the  room,  acting 
the  postman  with  great  diligence  and  exactitude.  He  carried 
a  bundle  of  letters  on  his  arm,  and  held  some  loose  in  his  hands. 
There  was  a  great  commotion  among  the  young  ladies  when  he 
presented  himself,  a  flirting  of  fans  and  waving  of  curls  that 
might  have  tempted  any  man  from  his  course.  He  turned 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  but  marching  directly  up  to 
Leicester,  presented  a  letter  with  "  Two  cents,  sir,  if  you 
please." 

Leicester  as  gravely  took  the  letter,  drew  a  five-cent  piece 
from  his  pocket,  and  placed  it  in  the  outstretched  hand  of  the 
postman,  with,  "  The  change,  if  you  please." 

A  burst  of  laughter  followed  this  scene  ;  but  the  postman,  no 
way  disconcerted,  placed  the  five-cent  piece  between  his  teeth, 
while  he  searched  his  pocket  for  the  change.  Drawing  forth 
three  cents,  he  counted  them  into  Leicester's  palm,  and  strode 
on  again,  as  if  every  mail  in  the  United  States  depended  on  his 
diligence.  Leicester  stood  a  moment  with  the  letter  in  his 
hand,  smiling  and  seemingly  a  little  embarrassed  about  opening 
it! 

Ada  glanced  sharply  from  the  letter  to  his  face.  Even  then 
she  was  struck  with  a  jealous  pang  that  made  her  recoil  with 
self-contempt. 


246  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

"  Xo  !  no — that  will  never  do,"  called  out  voices  all  around, 
as  Leicester  seemed  about  to  place  the  note  in  his  pocket — 
"  All  letters  are  public  property  here — break  the  seal — break 
the  seal  !" 

With  a  derisive  smile  on  his  lip,  as  if-  coerced  into  doing  a 
silly  thing,  he  broke  the  seal  and  unfolded  the  missive.  A  tress 
of  golden  hair  dropped  to  his  feet,  which  he  snatched  up  hur- 
ritdly,  and  grasped  in  his  hand.  A  burst  of  gay  laughter  fol 
lowed  the  act. 

"  Read — read — it  is  poetry — we  can  see  that — give  us  the 
poetry  1"  broke  merrily  around  him. 

"  Spare  me,"  said  Leicester,  apparently  annoyed  ;  "  but  if  tho 
fair  lady  chooses  to  enlighten  you,  she  has  my  consent." 

Ada  reached  forth  her  hand  for  the  paper.  A  strange  sen 
sation  crept  over  her,  with  the  first  sight  of  it  in  the  mock  post 
man's  hand,  and  it  was  with  an  effort  that  she  conquered  this 
feeling  sufficiently  to  open  the  paper,  with  her  usual  careless 
ease. 

She  glanced  at  the  first  line.  Her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  speak  ;  but  they  uttered  no  sound,  and  by  slow  de 
grees  the  red  died  out  from  them. 

Leicester  watched  her  closely  with  his  half  averted  eyes,  and 
those  around  him  looked  on  in  gay  expectation  ;  for  no  one 
else  observed  the  change  in  her  countenance.  To  the  crowd, 
she  seemed  only  gathering  up  the  spirit  of  the  lines,  before  she 
commenced  reading  them  aloud.  The  paper  contained  a  wild, 
impulsive  appeal  to  him,  after  the  first  jealous  outbreak  that  had 
disturbed  their  married  life.  As  usual,  when  a  warm  heart  has 
either  done  or  suffered  wrong,  it  matters  little  which,  she  had 
been  the  first  to  make  concessions,  and  lavish  in  self-blame, 
poured  forth  her  passionate  regret,  as  if  all  the  fault  had  been 
hers.  In  her  first  jealous  indignation,  she  had  demanded  a 
tress  of  hair,  for  which  he  had  importuned  her  one  night  at  the 
old  homestead. 

He  rendered  it  coldly  back  without  a  word.  Wild  with  af 
fright,  lest  this  was  the  seal  of  eternal  separation,  she  had  sent 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  247 

back  the  tress  of  hair  now  grasped  in  Leicester's  hand,  with 
the  lines  which,  with  the  plotting  genius  of  a  fiend,  he  had 
placed  in  her  hand. 

Poor  Ada,  sue  was  unconscious  of  the  crowd.  The  days 
of  her  youth  came  back — the  old  homestead — the  pangs  and 
joys  of  her  first  married  life.  While  she  seemed  to  read,  a  life 
time  of  memories  swept  through  her  brain,  which  ached  with 
the  sudden  rush  of  thought. 

Leicester  stood  regarding  her  with  apparent  unconcern  ;  but 
it  was  as  the  spider  watches  the  fly  in  his  net. 

"  She  cannot  read  it  aloud — I  thought  so,"  he  said  inly,  "  let 
her  struggle — while  her  lips  pale  in  that  fashion  she  is  mine  ;  I 
knew  it  would  smite  her  to  the  heart.  Let  the  fools  clamor, 
she  is  struck  dumb  with  old  memories." 

Unconsciously  a  cold  smile  of  triumph  crept  over  his  lips,  as 
these  thoughts  gained  strength  from  Ada's  continued  silence 
With  her  eyes  on  the  paper,  she  still  seemed  to  read. 

At  length  her  guests  became  politely  impatient. 

"  We  are  all  attention,"  cried  a  voice. 

She  did  not  hear  it ;  but  others  set  in  with  laughing  clamor  ; 
and  at  length  she  looked  up,  as  if  wondering  what  all  the  noise 
was  about.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  Leicester.  She  saw  the  smile 
of  which  he  was  probably  unconscious,  and  the  present  flashed 
back  to  her  brain. 

"  He  hopes  to  crush  me  with  these  memories,"  she  thought 
with  lightning  intuition. 

The  life  came  back  to  her  eyes,  the  strength  to  her  limbs, 
and  without  hesitation  or  pause,  her  voice  broke  forth.  As 
she  went  on,  the  fire  of  a  wounded  nature  flashed  over  her  face. 
Her  voice  swelled  out  rich  and  passionately.  Her  woman's 
heart  seemed  beating  in  every  word. 

TAKE  back  the  tress  !    the  broken  chain, 

Its  fragile  folds  have  linked  around  us, 
May  never  re-unite  again  ! 

And  every  gentle  tie  that  bound  us, 


248  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

The  madness  of  a  single  hour — 

The  madness  of  a  word — has  parted, 

Leaving  the  marble  in  thy  power  : 

And  me,  ah  more  than  broken  hearted. 

Take  back  the  tress  !  I  cannot  bear 

To  hold  the  link  my  hand  has  scattered  j 
It  mocks  me,  in  my  dark  despair, 

With  scenes  and  hopes  forever  shattered ; 
It  haunts  me  with  a  thousand  things — 

A  thousand  words,  half  felt,  half  spoken— 
When  thy  proud  soul  with  eagle  wings 

Stoop'dto  the  heart  now  almost  broken. 

It  haunts  me  with  the  deep,  low  tones, 

That  stir'd  my  soul  to  more  than  gladness 
When  we  seemed  in  the  world,  alone, 

And  joy  grew  deep  almost  to  sadness. 
Is  there  no  charm  to  win  thee  back, 

To  wake  the  love  thy  pride  is  crushing  ? 
Has  mem' ry  left  no  golden  track — 

No  music  which  thy  heart  is  hushing  ? 

Is  there  within  this  little  tress 

No  thought  but  that  which  wakes  thy  scorning  f 
Oh  say,  was  there  no  happiness 

Within  thy  breast  that  summer  morning, 
When  from  my  brow  the  curl  was  shred 

With  hand  that  shook  in  joy,  and  terror; 
And  love,  half  hush'd  in  trembling  dread. 

Shrunk  back,  as  if  to  feel  were  error  ? 

My  soul  is  filled  with  deep  regret, 

That  I  who  loved  thee  sor  could  doubt  thee  1 
Sweep  back  thy  pride,  forgive,  forget ! 

Life  is  so  desolate  without  thee. 
I  will  not  keep  this  tress  of  hair  : 

As  ravens  from  their  gloomy  wings 
Cast  shadows,  it  but  leaves  despair 

Upon  the  weary  heart  it  wrings. 

Where  hope,  and  life,  and  faith  are  giveu, 
I  send  it  back,  perchance  too  late  ; 

Go  cast  it  to  the  ;winds  of  heaven, 
Jf  it  but  rouse  more  bitter  hate, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  249 

/  will  not  rend  a  single  thread 

That  binds  my  willing  soul  to  thine  : 
Take  then  the  task ;  if  love  has  fled, 

Despoil  love's  desolated  shrine, 

Her  voice  ceased  to  vibrate  over  the  throng  full  half  a  min 
ute,  before  the  listeners  breathed  freely.  The  mesmeric 
influence  of  her  hidden  grief  spread  from  heart  to  heart,  till  in 
its  earnestness,  the  crowd  forgot  to  applaud.  Thus  it  happened 
that  for  some  moments  after  she  had  done,  there  was  silence 
all  around  her.  The  paper  began  to  tremble  in  her  hand — sho 
tossed  it  carelessly  toward  Leicester. 

"  The  lady  is  too  much  in  earnest — she  quite  takes  away  my 
breath,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  gay  mockery;  "  a  grand  pas 
sion  like  that  must  be  very  fatiguing." 

A  flash  rose  to  Leicester's  brow.  He  took  the  paper,  and 
refolding  the  curl  of  hair  in  it,  placed  both  in  his  bosom.  His 
manner  was  grave — almost  humble.  She  had  baffled  him  for 
once.  But  the  game  was  not  played  out  yet. 

The  crowd  that  observed  nothing  but  the  surface  of  this 
scene,  was  still  somewhat  subdued  by  it ;  but  the  ringing  notes 
of  a  waltz  that  swept  in  from  the  dancing  saloon,  set  the  gay 
current  in  motion  again. 

"  Who  was  it  that  engaged  me  for  this  waltz  ?"  cried  the  hos 
tess,  glancing  around  the  throng  of  distinguished  men  that 
surrounded  her 

Half  a  dozen  voices  gaily  answered  the  challenge;  but  still, 
with  a  purpose  at  heart,  she  selected  the  most  distinguished  of 
the  group,  and  was  followed  to  the  dancing  saloon. 

Leicester  remained  behind.  Even  his  strong  nerves  were 
ready  to  break  down  under  the  excitement  crowded  upon  him 
that  evening.  Never  had  he  been  placed  in  a  position  of  such 
difficulty.  With  two  important  crimes,  perpetrated  almost  the 
same  hour,  urging  immediate  flight  to  Europe,  he  found  himself 
constrained  to  remain  and  secure  the  still  richer  prize,  the 
discovery  of  that  evening  seemed  to  place  within  'his  grasp. 
He  leaned  against  the  pillar  near  which  Ada  had  been  stationed 

11* 


250  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

to  receive  her  guests,  and  made  a  prompt  review  of  his  posi 
tion. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  thought,  locking  his  teeth  hard,  as  the  ne 
cessity  was  forced  upon  him  ;  "  they  must  have  time  to  put  the 
boy  up  in  Sing-Sing.  The  girl,  too — fool  that  I  was — she  is 
the  most  troublesome  part  of  the  business.  I  will  get  her  over 
sea,  at  once — the  witnesses  are  nothing — she  can't  live  over  a 
few  months — if  she  does " 

A  fiendish  expression  crept  over  his  face,  and  after  a 
moment,  he  muttered,  so  audibly,  that  the  two  shrouded  females 
close  by  the  pillar  heard  him  ;  "  But  women's  hearts  never  do 
break  ;  if  they  did,  Wilcox's  daughter  would  have  been  in  her 
grave  long  ago." 

A  faint  sob  close  by  him,  drove  these  evil  thoughts  inward 
again.  There  was  a  slight  rustling  near  the  pillar,  and  raising 
his  eyes,  he  saw  the  two  characters,  Night  and  Morning,  gliding 
away  toward  the  dancers.  He  did  not  give  the  circumstance  a 
second  thought ;  but  moved  down  the  rooms  toward  the  con 
servatory,  where  he  could  plot  and  think  alone. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  off  and  find  a  safe  place  for  Florence. 
Thanks  to  my  icy-hearted  mother,  who  never  had  a  visitor, 
there  is  no  chance  for  gossip.  Robert  will  be  snugly-housed 
when  I  come  back,  and  my  man  shall  go  with  me." 

But  a  new  obstacle  arose  in  his  mind — the  flower-girl,  his 
other  witness.  The  old  people,  whose  faces  he  had  so  dimly 
seen — what  if  Ada  should  learn  all  from  them  ?  The  thought 
was  formidable  $  but  at  last  he  thrust  it  aside,  as  undeserving 
^f  anxiety. 

"  They  will  not  meet;  she  has  been  years  searching  for  them, 
and  in  vain  ;  besides,  I  shall  be  back  in  a  month  or  two.  If 
that  girl  is  obstinate  and  won't  die,  let  her  stay  behind — that 
will  settle  it  probably — the  hectic  is  on  her  cheek  now.  But 
I  must  see  this  proud  witch  to-night.  Poor  Ada,  how  much 
trouble  she  takes  to  prove  her  love — I  see  it  all  ;  this 
grand  display  was  for  hie — I  was  to  be  astonished,  braved, 
taunted  awhile,  and  after  a  tragic  scene  or  two,  my  lady  is 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  25 1 

as  a  lamb  once  more.  The  handsome  wretch — she  did 
outwit  me  with  those  lines;  I  thought  they  would  have  touched 
her  to  the  heart.  It  was  our  first  love  quarrel.  How  the 
creature  did  go  on  then !  Now  I  shall  find  her  more  difficult 
to  bring  under  ;  but  the  same  heart  is  at  the  bottom.  I  didn't 
think  she  could  have  read  those  lines  aloud — so  dauntlessly  too. 
Jove !  I  almost  loved  her  as  she  did  it.  Fool  that  I  was,  to 
make  this  trip  across  the  ocean  necessary.  But  for  that,  I 
might  take  possession  now.  Ada  Wilcox — my  pretty  rustic 
Ada,  reigning  here  like  a  queen  !  Mrs.  Gordon — Mrs.  Gordon! 
Faith,  it's  a  capital  joke.  She's  managed  it  splendidly — out 
generaled  Mrs.  Nash  and  Mrs.  Sykes  both.  More  than  that, 
she  has  half  out-generaled  Leicester  too." 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE     I.  AST    INTERVIEW. 

Thy  race  is  run— thy  fate  is  sealed, 

Trust  not  the  ties  that  bound  thee  ; 
A  thousand  snares,  still  unrevealed, 

Are  woven  close  around  thee. 

Nor  strength,  nor  craft  availeth  now ; 

Thy  stubborn  will  is  riven ; 
The  death  drops  hang  upon  thy  brow, 

There's  justice  yet  in  Heaven. 

IT  was  over  at  last.  The  saloon,  the  banquet  hall,  the  con 
servatory,  sleeping  in  the  moonlight  shed  from  many  a  sculp 
tured  vase — all  were  deserted ;  wax  candles  flared  and  went 
out  in  their  silver  sockets;  garlands  grew  dim  and  shadowy  in 
the  diminished  light;  half  a  dozen  yawning  footmen  glided  about 
extinguishing  wax  lights,  and  turning  off  gas,  but  they  seemed 
ghost-like  and  dreary,  wandering  through  the  vast  mansion. 


252  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

But  Ada  Leicester  felt  no  fatigue  ;  she  saw  nothing  of  the 
gloom  that  was  so  rapidly  spreading  over  the  splendor  of  her 
mansion.  Her  boudoir  was  still  lighted  by  those  two  pearl- 
like  lamps.  It  was  a  dim,  luxurious  twilight,  that  seemed  hazy 
with  the  perfume  stealing  up  from  a  dozen  snowy  vases  scat 
tered  through  the  dressing-room,  the  bed-chamber,  and  the 
boudoir.  The  doors  connecting  these  apartments  were  ajar, 
but  closed  enough  to  conceal  one  room  from  the  other. 

Ada  entered  the  boudoir.  Her  step  was  imperious  ;  her 
cheek  burning.  Pride,  anger  and  haughty  scorn  swelled  in 
her. bosom,  as  she  seated  herself  to  wait.  One  of  those  myste 
rious  revulsions  of  feeling  that  are  so  frequent  to  a  passionate 
and  ill-disciplined  nature,  had  swept  over  her  heart.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  disposed  to  sting  the  foot  that  had 
trampled  so  ruthlessly  upon  her.  In  that  moment,  all  the 
strong  love  of  a  lifetime  seemed  kindling  into  a  fiery  hate. 

It  was  one  of  those  hours  when  we  defy  destiny — defy  our 
own  souls.  A  few  hours  earlier  and  she  could  not  have  met 
him  thus  with  scorn  on  her  brow,  rebellion  in  her  heart.  A 
few  hours  after  she  might  repent  in  tears,  but  now  she  waited 
his  approach  without  a  thrill  of  pleasure  or  of  fear.  The  very 
memory  of  former  tenderness  filled  her  with  self-contempt.  The 
marble  Flora  stood  over  her — crimson  roses  and  heliotrope  had 
been  mingled  with  the  sculptured  lilies  in  its  hand.  A  few 
hours  before  she  had  stolen  away  from  her  guests,  to  place  these 
blossoms  among  the  marble  counterfeits,  for  they  breathed  his 
favorite  perfume ;  now,  she  sickened  as  the  fragrance  floated 
over  her,  and  tearing  them  from  the  statue,  tossed  them  amid 
a  bed  of  coals  still  burning  in  the  silver  grate. 

She  did  not  go  back  to  the  couch,  but  remained  upon  the 
ermine  rug,  with  one  arm  resting  upon  the  jetty  marble  of  the 
mantel-piece.  No  footstep  could  be  heard  in  that  sumptuously 
carpeted  house,  but  the  proud  spirit  within  her  seemed  to  know 
when  he  stole  softly  forth  from  the  conservatory,  and  approached 
the  room  where  she  was  waiting. 

Leicester  was  self-possessed ;  he  had  a  game  to  play,  more 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  253 

intricate,  more  difficult  than  his  experience  had  yet  coped  with, 
but  this  only  excited  his  intellect.  With  a  heart  of  stone  the 
nerves  hold  no  sympathy,  and  are  obedient  to  the  will  alone : 
what  or  who  had  ever  resisted  Leicester's  will ! 

But  she  also  was  self-possessed,  and  this  took  him  by  surprise. 
He  moved  toward  the  grate  and  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  man 
tel-piece,  directly  opposite  her.  She  held  a  superb  fan,  half 
open,  against  her  bosom  :  it  was  fringed  deep  with  the  gorgeous 
plumage  of  some  tropical  bird,  but  no  tumult  of  the  heart 
stirred  a  feather.  She  held  it  there,  as  she  had  often  done  that 
evening,  when  homage  floated  around  her,  gracefully  and  quiet 
ly  waiting  to  be  addressed.  This  mood  was  one  he  had  not 
expected ;  it  deranged  all  his  premeditated  plan  of  attack. 
Instead  of  reproaching  him,  with  that  passionate  anger  that 
pants  for  reconciliation,  she  was  silent. 

"Ada!"  The  name  was  uttered  in  a  voice  that  no  heart 
that  had  loved  the  speaker  could  entirely  resist.  A  faint  shiv 
er  and  an  irregular  breath  were  perceptibly  ruffling,  as  it  were, 
the  plumage  of  her  fan,  but  the  proud  woman  only  bent  her 
head. 

"Was  it  delicate — was  it  honorable  to  deceive  your  husband 
thus?"  he  said,  "to  grant  him  one  interview  after  so  many 
years,  and  then  conceal  yourself  from  his  search  under  this  dis 
guise  ?  I  have  sought  for  you,  Ada,  Heaven  only  knows  how 
anxiously." 

She  smiled  a  cold  incredulous  smile,  for  well  she  knew  how 
he  had  searched  for  her. 

"You  do  not  believe  me,"  said  Leicester,  attempting  to  take 
her  hand ;  but  she  drew  back,  pressing  the  fan  harder  to  her 
bosom,  till  the  delicately  wrought  ivory  broke.  The  demon  of 
pride  grew  strong  within  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
felt  a  knowledge  of  power  over  the  man  who  had  been  her 
fate. 

"Was  I  to  seek  you  that  your  foot  might  be  planted  on  my 
heart  once  more  ?  Was  I  to  oifer  my  bosom  to  the  serpent 
fang  again  and  again  ?  Have  you  forgotten  our  interview  in 


254  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

the  chamber  overhead? — that  chamber  where  I  had  hoarded 
every  thing  connected  with  the  only  happy  months  you  ever 
permitted  me  to  know — so  full  of  precious  memories  ?  I  thought 
they  would  touch  even  your  heart." 

He  attempted  to  speak,  but  she  would  not  permit  him.  "I 
did  not  know  you,  notwithstanding  past  experience.  Your 
heart  has  blacker  shades  than  I  imagined  !  Not  up  there — not 
among  objects  holy  from  association  with  my  child,  should  I 
have  taken  you,  but  here !  here !  do  not  these  things  betoken 
great  wealth?"  A  scornful  smile  curved  her  lips,  and  she 
glanced  around  the  boudoir. 

There  was  one  word  in  this  speech  that  Leicester  seized 
upon.  "  Your  child,  Ada.  Great  Heaven  !  would  you  ex 
clude  me  from  all  share  even  in  the  love  of  our  child  !" 

Even  this  did  not  soften  her,  though  she  was  fearfully  moved 
at  the  mention  of  her  lost  infant.  He  saw  this,  and  his  manner 
instantly  changed. 

"  Why  should  I  plead  with  you — why  waste  words  thus  ?" 
he  said,  casting  aside  all  affectation  of  tenderness  : — "  you  are 
my  wife — lawfully  married — the  mother  of  my  child.  If  you 
have  property,  by  the  laws  of  this  land  that  property  is  mine  ! 
I  plead  no  longer,  madam  1  Being  the  master  of  this  house,  if 
it  is  yours,  my  province  is  to  command.  Tell  me,  then  !  this 
wealth — for  which  people  give  their  idol,  Mrs.  Gordon,  so  much 
credit — this  mansion  ;  are  they  real  ? — are  they  yours  ? — 
and  therefore  mine  ?" 

The  scorn  that  broke  over  Ada's  face  was  absolutely  sub 
lime. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  this  wealth  is  mine,  yours,  if  the  law 
makes  it  so  ;  but  listen — then  say  if  you  will  use  it  1" 

She  bent  forward  ;  her  lips  and  cheek  were  pale  as  death, 
but  across  the  snow  of  her  forehead  a  crimson  flush  came  and 
went,  like  an  arrow  shooting  back  and  again. 

11  You  asked  me  that  night  in  the  room  above,  if  I  had  lived 
in  Europe  as  the  governess  of  that  man's  daughter — the  gover 
ness  only — I  answered  yes  ;  a  governess  only.  It  was  false  1 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  255 

Every  dollar  of  the  millions  I  possess  comes  from  this  man;  he 
bequeathed  them  on  his  death-bed,  that  I  might  not  again  be 
come  your  slave  !"  The  haughty  air  gave  way  as  she  uttered 
this  confession;  her  limbs  trembled  so  violently  that  she  was 
obliged  to  lean  on  the  mantel-piece  to  keep  from  sinking  to  the 
floor.  Pride,  that  treacherous  demon,  left  her  then,  helpless  as 
a  child. 

"  This,"  said  Leicester,  with  a  stern,  clear  enunciation,  "  this 
in  no  way  interferes  with  my  claim  on  the  property.  Were  it 
double,  that  would  be  poor  atonement  for  the  outrage  to  my 
affections — the  disgrace  brought  upon  my  name." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  listened  in  breathless  silence,  trying 
to  comprehend  the  moral  enormity  before  her,  with  a  confused 
sense  that  even  yet  she  had  not  fathomed  the  black  depths  of 
bis  heart. 

Leicester  had  paused,  thinking  that  she  would  answer  ;  but 
as  she  remained  silent  he  spoke  again,  still  calmly,  and  with 
measured  intonation. 

"  But  that  which  you  have  confessed  becomes  important  in 
another  sense.  If  the  law  gives  me  your  property,  it  also  en 
ables  me  to  divest  it  of  the  only  incumbrauce  that  would  be  un 
pleasant.  Your  confession,  madam,  entitles  me  to  a  divorce." 

"  You  would  not — oh,  Heavens,  no  !"  gasped  the  wretched 
woman.  ^ 

"  Now  you  seem  natural — now  you  are  meek  again,"  he  said 
with  a  laugh  that  cut  to  the  heart.  "  So,  you  thought  to  daz 
zle  me  with  your  wealth — wither  me  with  haughty  pride — fool  1 
miserable  fool  1" 

"Mercy,  mercy!  Will  no  one  save  me  from  this  man?" 
shrieked  the  wretched  woman,  flinging  her  clasped  hands  wildly 
upward. 

Leicester  was  about  to  speak  again,  something  fearfully 
bitter — you  could  see  it  in  the  curve  of  his  lip — but  her  cry  had 
reached  other  ears,  and  while  the  taunt  was  yet  unspoken,  Ja 
cob  Strong  entered  the  boudoir.  Leicester  gazed  upon  him  in 
utter  amazement,  for  he  advanced  directly  toward  Ada,  and 


CU'J   Ql 

utter 


256  FASHION      AND     FAMINE, 

taking  the  clasped  hands  she  held  out  in  both  his,  led  her  to 
the  couch,  trembling,  and  so  faint  that  she  was  incapable  of 
uttering  a  word. 

"  What  is  this  ?  how  came  you  here,  fellow?"  said  Leicester, 
the  moment  he  could  break  from  the  astonishment  occasioned  by 
Jacob's  presence. 

"  My  mistress  called  for  help,  and  I  came,"  was  the  steady 
answer. 

"  Your  mistress  !  where — who  ?" 

"  This  lady — jour  first  wife!  the  other " 

"  Villain  !  who  are  you  ?" 

Jacob  looked  into  his  master's  eyes  with  a  calm  stare  : 
"  Look  at  me,  Mr.  Leicester  !  I  have  grown  since  you  saw  me 
at  old  Mr.  Wilcox's  !  No  doubt  you  have  forgotton  the  awk 
ward  boy,  who  tended  your  horse,  and  pointed  out  the  best 
trout  streams  for  you  ?  But  I — I  shall  never  forget  !  No 
angry  looks — no  frowns,  sir  !  The  rocks  we  climbed  together 
would  feel  them  more  than  I  do." 

"Go  on — go  on — I  would  learn  more," said  Leicester,  paling 
fearfully  about  the  mouth.  "You  have  been  a  spy  in  my 
service  !" 

"  Yes — a  spy — a  keeper  of  your  most  dangerous  secrets  !  I 
read  the  letter  from  Georgia — I  have  that  old  copy-book,  which 
was  to  have  sent  JjLobert  Otis,  my  own  nephew,  to  state  prison. 
There  is  a  check  of  ten  thousand,  which  I  can  lay  my  hand  on 
at  any  moment — you  comprehend  !  I  saw  it  written — I  saw  it 
pass  from  your  hand  to  his.  I  was  in  the  back  room.  Yillain  ! 
I  am  your  master." 

The  palor  spread  up  from  Leicester's  mouth  to  his  temples, 
leaving  a  dusky  ring  around  his  eyes.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  this  man  of  evil  and  stern  will  was  terrified.  Yet 
wrath  was  stronger  in  his  heart  than  fear,  even  then.  His 
white  lips  curled  in  fierce  disdain.  He  turned  towards  Ada, 
who  lay  with  her  face  buried  in  the  silken  pillows,  con 
scious  of  nothing  but  -her  own  unutterable  wretchedness.  She 
did  not  feel  the  fiendish  glance  that  he  cast  upon  herj  but  Ja- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  257 

cob  saw  it,  and  his  grey  eyes  kindled,  till  they  seemed  black  as 
midnight:  "  If  you  wish  to  see  another,  come  in  here — come,  I 
say!  Victims  are  plenty  about  you;  come  in." 

Jacob  looked  terribly  imposing  in  this  burst  of  indignation. 
His  awkward  form  dilated  into  rude  grandeur — his  wrath,'  pon 
derous  and  intense,  rolled  forth  like  some  fathomless  streau, 
whose  very  tranquillity  is  terrible.  He  flung  his  powerful  arm 
around  Leicester,  and  drew  him  forward  as  if  he  had  been  a  child. 

Through  the  dressing-room,  still  flooded  with  soft  light  and 
redolent  of  flowers,  and  into  the  bed-chamber  beyond,  Jacob 
strode,  grasping  his  companion  firmly  with  one  arm.  He  paused 
close  by  the  bed.  With  an  upward  motion  of  his  arms,  he  flung 
aside  the  cloud  of  lace  that  fell  over  it,  and  pointed  to  a  form 
that  lay  underneath,  pillowed,  as  it  were,  upon  a  snow  drift. 
"Look  !  here  is  another  !"  said  Jacob,  towering  above  the  man 
who  had  been  his  master — for  there  was  no  stoop  in  his  shoul 
ders  then — "look!  it  is  your  last  victim — to  all  eternity,  the 
last  !" 

Leicester  did  look,  for  his  ga.ze  was  fascinated  by  the  soft 
eyes  lifted  to  his  from  the  pillow ;  the  sweet,  sweet  smile  that 
played  around,  that  lovely  mouth.  It  went  to  his  soul — that 
impenetrable  soul — that  Ada's  anguish  had  failed  to  reach. 

"She  heard  it  all.  She  saw  everything  that  passed  between 
you  and  your  wife,"  said  Jacob. 

"What — and  smiles  upon  me  thus?"  There  was  something 
of  human  feeling  in  his  voice.  He  stooped  down,  and  put  back 
some  raven  tresses  that  fell  over  the  eyes  that  were  searching 
for  his. 

Then  the  smile  broke  into  a  laugh  so  wild  with  insane  glee, 
that  even  Leicester  shuddered  and  drew  back.  Florence  started 
up  iu  the  bed.  The  lace  of  her  wedding  garments  was  crushed 
around  her  form — her  arms  were  entangled  in  the  rich  white 
veil  which  still  clung,  torn  and  ragged,  to  the  diamond  star 
fastened  over  her  temple.  The  cypress  and  jessamine  wreath, 
half  torn  away,  hung  in  fragments  among  her  black  tresses. 
She  saw  that  Leicester  avoided  her,  and  tearing  the  veil  fiercely, 


258  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

set  both  her  arras  free.  She  leaned  half  over  the  bed,  holding 
them  out,  as  a  child  aroused  from  sleep,  pleads  -for  its  mother. 
Leicester  drew  near,  for  a  fiend  could  not  have  resisted  that 
ook.  She  caught  both  his  hands,  drew  herself  up  to  his  bosom, 
\nd  then  began  to  laugh  again. 

That  moment  a  female,  whose  black  garments  contrasted 
gloomily  with  the  drift-like  whiteness  of  the  couch,  came  from 
the  shadowy  part  of  the  room,  and  taking  Florence  in  her 
arms  laid  her  gently  back  upon  the  pillows.  She  had  seen  that 
of  which  Leicester  and  Jacob  were  unconscious — Ada  Leicester, 
standing  in  the  gorgeous  gloom  of  her  dressing-chamber,  and 
watching  the  scene. 

"Mother,  you  here  also!"  exclaimed  Leicester,  and  his  voice 
had,  for  the  instant,  something  of  human  anguish  in  it.  His 
mother  pointed  toward  the  dressing-room,  and  only  an 
swered — 

"  Would  you  drive  her  mad  also  ?" 

"Would  to  Heaven  it  were  possible,"  answered  Leicester, 
with  a  cold  sneer.  He  bowed  low,  and  with  a  gesture  full  of 
sarcastic  defiance  moved  toward  the  dressing-room.  Jacob  fol 
lowed  him! 

"  Stay,"  said  Ada,  standing  before  them — "what  is  this — who 
are  the  persons  you  have  left  in  my  chamber  ?" 

"  One  of  them,"  answered  Leicester,  with  calm  audacity,  "  one 
of  them  is  of  little  consequence,  though  you  may  find  in  her,  my 
dear  madam,  an  old  acquaintance.  The  other  is  a  young  lady, 
very  beautiful,  as  you  may  see  even  from  here — to  whom  I  had 
the  honor  of  being  married  last  evening.  How  she  became  your 
guest  I  do  not  know,  but  treat  her  with  all  hospitality,  I  be 
seech  you,  if  it  were  only  for  the  love  that  I  bear  her — love 
that  I  never  felt  for  mortal  woman  before." 

"  Go,"  said  Ada,  stung  into  some  degree  of  strength  by  his 
insolence,  "  or,  rather  let  me  go,  if  you  are  indeed  the  master 
here." 

She  took  a  shawl  which  had  been  flung  across  a  chair,  and 
folded  it  around  her. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  259 

"Take  everything,  but  let  me  go  in  peace.  Jacob,  oh,  my 
friend,  you  will  not  abandon  me  now  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Jacob,  with  a  degree  of  respectful  tender 
ness  that  gave  to  his  rude  features  something  more  touching 
than  beauty.  "  Take  off  your  shawl,  madam — he  has  lost  all 
power  to  harm  you — there  is  desperation  in  his  insolence,  noth 
ing  more.  His  own  crimes  have  disabled  him." 

"  How  ?  how  ?  Not  that  which  he  hinted — not  marriage 
with  another  ?  .  Tell  me,  that  it  was  only  bravado.  Rather, 
much  rather,  could  I  go  forth  penniless  and  bare-headed  into 
the  street." 

She  approached  Leicester,  holding  out  her  hands.  He  saw 
all  the  unquenched  love  that  shed  anguish  over  that  beautiful 
face,  and  took  courage.  In  this  weakness,  lay  some  hope  of 
safety. 

"  Ada  let  me  see  you  alone,"  he  said,  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  voice  and  manner.  She  looked  at  Jacob  irresolutely. 
He  saw  the  danger  at  once,  and  taking  her  band,  led  her  with 
gentle  force  into  the  bed-chamber.  "  Look,"  he  said,  pointing 
to  Florence,  who  lay  upon  the  couch — "  ask  her,  she  will  tell 
you  what  it  means." 

Ada  advanced  toward  the  old  lady,  who  came  to  meet  her  as 
one  who  receives  the  mourners  who  gather  to  a  funeral. 

"  It  is  Leicester's  mother,"  broke  from  the  pale  lips  of  Leices 
ter's  wife. 

"  My  poor  daughter,"  said  the  old  lady,  wringing  the  tremb 
ling  hand  that  Ada  held  out. 

"Will  you — can  you,  call  me  daughter?  oh  madam,  how  long 
it  is  since  that  sweet  word  has  fallen  on  my  ear."  The  pathos 
of  her  words — the  humility  of  her  manner — melted  the  old  lady 
almost  to  tears.  She  opened  her  arms,  and  received  the  wretched 
woman  to  her  bosom. 

Jacob  went  out  and  found  Leicester  in  the  boudoir. 

"  Will  she  come  ?  I  am  tired  of  waiting,"  he  said,  as  Jacob 
closed  and  locked  the  door  leading  to  the  dressing-room. 

"  Expect  nothing  from  her  weakness — never  hope  to  see  her 


260  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

again.  It  is  with  me — not  a  weak,  loving,  forgiving  woman, 
you  have  to  deal." 

"  With  you — her  father's  clownish  farmer-boy — my  own1  ser 
vant." 

"  I  have  no  words  to  throw  away,  and  you  will  need  them  to 
defend  yourself,"  answered  Jacob,  with  firm  self-possession. 
"  You  have  committed,  within  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  two 
crimes  against  the  law.  You  have  married  a  woman,  knowing 
your  wife  to  be  alive.  I  am  the  witness,  I,  her  playmate  when 
she  was  a  little  girl,  her  protector  and  faithful  servant  in  the 
trouble  and  sin  which  you  heaped  upon  her  after  she  was  a  wo 
man.  I  went  with  her  to  the  hotel  that  night,  I  witnessed  all 
— all — to  the  scene  last  evening.  Let  that  pass,  for  it  should 
pass,  rather  than  have  her  history  connected  with  yours  before 
the  world.  But  another  crime.  This  forged  check — this  at 
tempt  to  ruin  as  warm-hearted  and  honest  a  boy  as  ever  lived. 
In  this,  her  name  cannot,  from  necessity,  appear  ;  for  this  you 
shall  suffer  to  the  extent  of  the  law  ;  for  this,  you  shall  live 
year  after  year  in  prison,  not  from  revenge,  mark,  but  that  she, 
Ada  Wilcox,  may  breathe  in  peace.  Leave  this  house,  sir,  qui 
etly,  for  I  must  not  have  a  felon  arrested  beneath  her  roof.  Gc 
anywhere  you  like,  for  a  few  hours,  not  to  the  hotel,  for  Robert 
Otis  is  waiting  in  your  chamber  with  an  officer  ;  not  to  ferry, 
or  steamboat,  in  hopes  of  escaping  ;  men  are  placed  everywhere 
to  stop  you  ;  but  till  noon  you  are  safe  from  arrest. 

"  I  will  not  leave  this  house  without  speaking  with  Ada," 
said  Leicester,  in  a  whisper  so  deep  and  fierce,  that  it  came 
through  his  clenched  teeth  like  the  hiss  of  a  wounded 
adder. 

"  Five  minutes  you  have  for  deliberation  ;  go  forth  quietly, 
and  as  a  departing  guest,  or  remain  to  be  marshalled  out  by 
half  a  dozen  men,  whom  the  chief  of  police  has  sent  to  protect 
the  grounds— you  understand,  to  protect  the  grounds." 

Leicester  did  not  speak,  but  a  sharp,  fiendish  gloom  shot  into 
Ms  eyes,  and  he  thrust  one  hand  beneath  his  snowy  vest,  and 
drew  it  slowly  out ;  then  came  the  sharp  click  of  a  pocket  pis- 


FASHION      AND      FA MI 

tol.    .Jacob  watched  the  motion,  and  his  heavy8 
with  a  smile. 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  your  servant ;  that  I  laid  out  your 
wedding  dress,  and  loaded  the  pistol ;  put  it  up,  sir — as  I  told 
you  before,  when  I  play  with  rattlesnakes,  I  take  a  hard  grip  on 
the  neck." 

Leicester  drew  his  hand  up  deliberately,  and  dashed  the  pis 
tol  in  Jacob's  face.  The  stout  man  recoiled  a  step,  and  blood 
flowed  from  his  lips.  It  was  fortunate  for  him  that  Leicester 
had  found  the  revolver  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  wearing 
too  heavy  for  his  wedding  garments.  As  it  was,  he  took  out 
a  silk  handkerchief,  and  coolly  wiped  the  blood  from  his  mouth, 
casting  now  and  then  a  look  at  the  tiny  clock  upon  thafcnantel- 
piece.  The  fiendish  smile  excited  by  the  sight  of  his  enemy's 
blood  was  just  fading  from  Leicester's  lip,  when  Jacob  put  the 
handkerchief  back  in  his  pocket. 

"  You  will  save  a  few  hours  of  liberty  by  departing  at  once," 
he  said.  "  To  a  man,  who  has  nothing  but  prison  walls  before 
him,  they  should  be  worth  something." 

"  Yes,  much  can  be  done  in  a  few  hours,"  muttered  Leicester 
to  himself,  and  gently  settling  his  hat,  he  turned  to  go. 

"  Open  the  door,"  he  said,  turning  coolly  to  Jacob  ;  "  your 
wages  are  paid  up  to  this  time,  at  any  rate." 

Jacob  bowed  gravely,  and  dropping  into  his  awkward  way, 
followed  his  master  down  stairs.  He  opened  the  principal  door, 
and  Leicester  stepped  into  the  street  quietly,  as  if  the  respect 
ful  attendance  had  been  real. 

The  morning  had  just  dawned,  cold,  comfortless,  and  humid; 
a  slippery  moisture  lay  upon  the  pavements,  dark  shadows  hung 
like  drapery  along  the  unequal  streets ;  Leicester  threaded  them 
with  slow  and  thoughtful  step.  For  once,  his  great  intellect, 
his  plotting  fiend,  refused  to  work.  What  shoald  he  do  ?  how 
act  ?  His  hotol,  the  very  street  which  he  threaded  perhaps, 
beset  with  officers ;  his  garments  elegantly  conspicuous  ;  his 
arms  useless,  and  in  his  pockets  only  a  little  silver  and  one 
piece  of  gold.  Never  was  position  more  desperate. 


262  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Hour  after  hour  wore  on,  and  still  he  wandered  through  the 
streets.  As  daylight  spread  over  the  sky,  kindling  up  the  fog 
that  still  clung  heavily  around  the  city,  Leicester  saw  two 
men  walking  near  him.  He  quickened  his  pace,  he  loitered, 
turned  again,  down  one  street  and  up  another ;  with  their  arms 
interlaced,  tjieir  bodies  sometimes  enfolded  in  the  fog,  distinct 
or  shadowy,  those  strange  wanderers  had  a  power  to  make  Lei 
cester's  heart  quail  within  him. 

All  at  once  he  started,  and  stood  up  motionless  in  the  street. 
That  child — those  two  old  people  !  He  had  recognized  them 
at  once  the  night  before  as  Mr.  Wilcox  and  his  wife,  poor, 
friendless ;  he  had  striven  to  cast  them  from  his  mind,  to  for 
get  that^jthey  lived.  The  after  events  of  that  night  had  come 
upon  him  like  a  thunder-clap  ;  in  defending  himself  or  attacking 
others,  he  had  found  little  time  to  calculate  on  the  discovery  of 
his  daughter  and  her  old  grand  parents.  Now,  the  thought 
came  to  his  brain  like  lightning.  He  would  secure  the  young 
girl — Ada's  lost  child.  The  secret  of  her  existence  was  his  ;  it 
should  redeem  him  from  the  consequence  of  his  great  crime. 
The  old  people  were  poor — they  would  give  up  the  child  to  a 
rich  father,  and  ask  no  questions.  With  this  last  treasure  in  his 
power,  Ada  would  not  refuse  to  bribe  it  from  him  at  any 
price.  Her  self-constituted  guardian,  too,  that  man  of  rude 
will,  and  indomitable  strength,  he  who  had  sacrificed  a  lifetime 
to  the  mother  of  this  child,  who  had  tracked  his  own  steps  like  a 
hound,  could  he,  who  had  given  up  so  much,  refuse  to  surrender 
his  vengeance,  also  ?  This  humble  girl,  from  whom  Leicester 
had  turned  so  contemptuously,  how  precious  she  became  as 
these,  thoughts  flashed  through  his  brain. 

Leicester  proceeded  with  a  rapid  step  to  the  neighborhood 
that  he  had  visited  the  previous  night.  He  descended  to  the 
area,  glided  through  the  dim  hall,  and  entered  the  back  base 
ment  just  as  old  Mr.  Warren,  or  Wilcox  we  must  now  call  him, 
was  sitting  down  to  breakfast  with  his  wife  and  grandchild.  A 
look  of  poverty  was  about  the  room,  warded  off  by  care  and 
cleanliness,  but  poverty  still.  Leicester  had  only  time  to  remark 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  263 

this,  when  his  presence  was  observed.  Old  Mr.  Wilcox  roso 
slowly  from  his  chair,  his  thin  face  grew  pale  as  he  gazed  upon 
the  elegant  person  of  his  visitor,  and  the  rich  dress,  so  strongly 
at  variance  with  the  place.  A  vague  terror  seized  him,  for  he 
did  not  at  once  recognize  the  features,  changed  by  time,  and 
more  completely  still,  by  a  night  of  agonizing  excitement.  At 
length  he  recognized  his  son-in-law,  and  sinking  to  his  chair, 
uttered  a  faint  groan. 

Julia  started  up,  and  flung  her  arms  around  the  old  man's 
neck.  Leicester  came  quietly  forward. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  me,  sir  ?"  he  said,  laying  one  hand  softly 
upon  the  table. 

"No,"  gasped  the  old  man,  "no." 

"And  the  little  girl,  she  seems  afraid  of  me,  but  when  she 
knows—" 

"  Hush,"  said  the  old  man,  rising,  with  one  arm  around  the 
child,  "  not  another  word  till  we  are  alone.  Wife,  Julia,  leave 
the  room." 

The  old  woman  hesitated.  She,  too,  had  recognized  Leices 
ter,  and  dreaded  to  leave  him  alone  with  her  husband.  Julia 
looked  from  one  to  the  other,  amazed  and  in  trouble. 

"  As  you  wish.  I  have  no  time  to  spare.  Send  them  away, 
and  we  can. more  readily  settle  my  demands  and  your  claims." 

"Go  1"  replied  the  old  man,  laying  his  hand  on  Julia's  head. 

That  withered  hand  shook  like  a  leaf. 

Julia  and  her  grandmother  went  out,  but  not  beyond  the 
hall.  There  they  stood,  distant  as  the  space  would  permit,  but 
still  within  hearing  of  the  voices  within.  Now  and  then  a  word 
rose  high,  and  old  Mrs.  Wilcox  would  draw  Julia's  head  against 
her  side,  and  press  a  hand  upon  her  ear,  as  if  she  dreaded  that 
even  those  indistinct  murmurs  should  reach  her. 

While  these  poor  creatures  stood  trembling  in  the  hall,  a 
strange,  fierce  scene  was  going  on  over  that  miserable  break 
fast-table.  Leicester  had  been  persevering  and  plausible  at 
first ;  with  promises  of  wealth,  and  protestations  of  kindness,  he 
had  endeavored  to  induce  the  poor  old  man  to  render  up  the 


204  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

child.  When  this  failed,  he  became  irritated,  and,  with  fiercer 
passions,  attempted  to  intimidate  the  feeble  being  whom  he  had 
already  wronged  almost  beyond  all  hopes  of  human  forgiveness. 
The  old  man  said  little,  for  he  was  terrified,  and  weak  as  a 
child  ;  but  his  refusal  to  yield  up  the  little  girl  was  decided. 
"  If  the  law  takes  her  away,  I  cannot  help  it,"  he  said,  "  but 
nothing  else  ever  shall."  Tears  rolled  down  the  old  man's  face 
as  he  spoke,  but  his  will  had  been  expressed,  and  the  man  who 
came  to  despoil  him  saw  that  it  was  immovable. 

Despairing  at  last,  and  fiercely  desperate,  Leicester  rushed 
from  the  basement.  Julia  and  her  grandmother  shrunk  against 
the  wall,  for  the  palor  of  his  face  was  frightful.  He  did  not 
appear  to  see  them,  but  went  quickly  through  the  outer  door 
and  up  to  the  side-walk.  Here  stood  the  two  men,  arm-in-arm, 
ready  to  follow  him.  He  turned  back,  and  retraced  his  steps, 
with  a  dull,  heavy  footfall,  utterly  unlike  the  elasticity  of  his 
usual  tread.  Further  and  further  back  crowded  the  frightened 
females.  The  old  man  was  so  exhausted  that  he  could  not 
arise  from  the  chair  to  which  he  had  fallen.  He  looked  up 
when  Leicester  entered  the  room,  and  said,  beseechingly,  "  Oh, 
let  me  alone  !  See  how  miserable  you  have  made  us  !  Do  let 
us  alone  I" 

"  Once  more — once  more  I  ask,  will  you  give  up  the  child  ?" 

"  No— no." 

A  knife  lay  upon  the  table,  long  and  sharp,  one  that  Mrs. 
Wilcox  had  been  using  in  her  household  work.  Leicester's  eye 
had  been  fixed  on  the  knife  while  he  was  speaking.  His  hand 
was  outstretched  toward  it  before  the  old  man  could  find  voice 
to  answer.  Simultaneous  with  the  brief  "  no,"  the  knife  flashed 
upward,  down  again,  and  Leicester  fell  dead  at  the  old  man's 
feet.  Mr.  Wilcox  dropped  on  his  knees,  seized  the  knife,  and 
tore  it  from  the  wound.  Over  his  withered  hands,  over  the 
white  vest,  down  to  his  feet,  gushed  the  warm  blood.  It  para 
lyzed  the  old  man ;  he 'tried  to  cry  aloud,  but  had  no  power. 
A  frightful  stillness  reigned  over  him;  then  many  persons 
came  rushing  into  the  room. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  2t>5 

A  light  shone  in  that  pretty  cottage — a  single  light  from 
the  chamber  where  Julia  had  robed  Florence  Nelson  in  her 
bridal  dress.  A  bed  was  there,  shrouded  in  drapery,  that  hung 
motionless,  like  marble,  and  as  coldly  white ;  glossy  linen  swept 
over  the  bed,  frozen,  as  it  were,  over  the  outline  of  a  human 
form.  Death — death — the  very  atmosphere  was  full  of  death. 
On  one  corner  of  the  bed,  crushing  the  cold  linen,  wrinkled 
with  her  weight,  Florence  Nelson  had  seated  herself,  and  with 
her  black  ringlets  falling  over  the  dead,  sung  to  him  as  no  hu 
man  being  ever  sung  before.  Sometimes  she  laughed — some 
times  wept.  Every  variation  of  her  madness  was  full  of  pathos, 
sweet  with  tenderness,  save  when  there  came  from  the  opposite 
room  a  pallid  and  grief-stricken  creature,  with  drooping  hands, 
and  eyes  heavy  with  unshed  tears. 

If  this  unhappy  woman  attempted  to  approach  the  bed,  or 
even  enter  the  room,  Florence  would  spring  up  with  the  fierce 
cry  of  a  wounded  eagle;  the  song  rose  to  a  wail,  then,  with  her 
waxen  hands,  she  would  gather  up  the  linen  in  waves,  over  the 
dead,  and  if  Ada  came  nearer,  shriek  after  shriek  rose  through 
the  cottage.  Thus  poor  Ada  Leicester,  driven  from  the  death- 
couch  of  her  husband,  would  creep  back  to  where  his  mother 
knelt  in  her  calm,  still  grief.  There,  with  her  stately  head 
bowed  down,  her  limbs  prone  upon  the  floor,  she  would  mur 
mur,  "  Oh,  God  help  me  I  It  is  just — but  help  me,  help  me  I 
Oh,  my  God  i" 


266  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE      CITY      PRISON. 

He  was  a  man  of  simple  heart, 
Patient  and  meek,  the  Christian  part 
Came  to  his  soul  as  came  the  air 
That  heaved  his  bosom  •,  hope,  despair, 
Were  chastened  by  a  holy  faith  ! — 
Meek  in  his  Hfe  he  feared  not  death. 

PERHAPS  in  the  whole  world  there  is  not  a  building  where  all 
the  horror,  the  wild  poetry  of  sin  and  grief  is  so  forcibly  written 
out  in  black  shadows  and  hard  stone,  as  in  the  city  prison  of 
New  York.  A  stranger  passing  that  massive  pile  would  uncon 
sciously  feel  saddened,  though  entirely  ignorant  of  its  painful 
uses,  for  the  very  atmosphere  fills  him  with  a  vague  sensation 
of  alarm.  The  Egyptian  architecture,  so  heavy  and  imposing  ;  the 
thick  walls  which  no  sunshine  can  penetrate,  and  against  which 
cries  of  anguish  might,  unheard,  exhaust  themselves  forever, 
chill  the  very  heart.  The  ponderous  columns,  lost  in  a  perspec 
tive  of  black  shadows  in  the  front  entrance — piles  of  granite 
sweeping  toward  Broadway,  and  interlocking  with  the  black 
prison  that  rises  up,  like  a  solid  wall,  gloomy,  windowless,  and 
penetrated  only  with  loop-holes,  like  a  fort  which  has  nothing 
but  misery  to  protect — fills  the  imagination  with  gloom. 

The  moment  you  come  in  sight  of  the  building,  your  breath 
draws  heavily ;  the  atmosphere  seems  humid  with  tears — oppres 
sive  witL  sighs — a  storm  of  human  suffering  appears  gathering 
around.  The  air  seems  eddying  with  curses  which  have 
exhausted  their  sound  against  those  walls  ;  you  feel  as  if  sin, 
shame,  and  grief  were  palpable  spirits,  walking  behind  and 
around  you  ;  and  all  this  is  the  more  terrible,  because  the  waves 
of  life  gather  close  up  to  the  building,  swelling  against  its  walls 
on  every  side. 

The  prison  sits  like  a  monster,  crouching  in  the  very  heart  of 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  267 

a  great  city ;  the  veins  and  arteries  of  social  evil  weave  and  coil 
close  around  it,  like  serpents  born  in  the  same  foul  atmosphere 
with  itself.  Placed  on  foundations  lower  than  the  graded 
walks,  nestled  in  a  dried  up  swamp  that  has  exchanged  the  mi 
asma  of  decayed  nature  for  the  miasma  of  human  guilt ;  the 
neighborhood  close  at  hand  sunk,  like  this  building,  deep  in  the 
grade  of  human  existence  ;  is  there  on  earth  another  spot  so 
eloquent  of  suffering,  so  populous  with  sin  ? 

"  The  Tombs,"  this  name  was  given  to  the  prison  years  ago, 
when  its  foundations  were  first  sunk  in  the  swampy  moisture  of 
the  soil.  Then  you  could  see  the  vast  structure  sinking,  day  by 
day,  into  its  murky  foundations,  and  enveloped  in  clouds  of  pal 
pable  miasma.  There  the  poor  wretches  huddled  within  its 
walls,  died  like  herds  of  poisoned  cattle  ;  pine  coffins  were  con 
stantly  passing  in  and  out  of  those  ponderous  doors.  Pauper 
death-carts  might  be  seen  every  day  lumbering  up  Centre  street, 
on  their  road  to  Potter's  Field.  The  man,  innocent  or  guilty, 
who  entered  those  walls,  breathed  his  death  warrant  as  he 
passed  in. 

This  only  continued  for  a  season  ;  it  was  not  long  before  the 
tramp  of  human  feet,  and  the  weight  of  that  ponderous  mass  o£ 
stone  crushed  the  poisonous  moisture  from  the  earth,  but  the 
name  which  death  had  left  still  remained — a  name  deeply  and 
solemnly  significant  of  the  place  to  all  who  deem  moral  evil  and 
moral  death  as  mournful  as  the  physical  suffering  which  had 
baptized  it. 

The  main  building,  which  fronts  on  Centre  street,  opens  to  a 
dusky  and  pillared  vestibule,  that  leads  to  various  rooms,  occu 
pied  by  the  courts  and  officials  connected  with  the  prison.  At 
the  right,  as  you  enter,  is  the  police  court,  a  spacious  apart 
ment,  witTi  deep  casements.  A  raised  platform,  railed  in  from 
the  people,  upon  which  the  magistrates  sit,  contains  a  desk  or 
two,  and  beyond  are  several  smaller  rooms,  used  for  private 
examinations. 

In  one  of  these  rooms,  the  smallest  and  most  remote,  sat  a 
mournful  group,  early  one  morning,  before  the  magistrates  had 


268  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

taken  their  seats  upon  the  bench.  One  was  an  old  man,  thin, 
haggard  and  care-worn,  but  with  a  placid  and  even  exalted 
cast  of  countenance,  such  as  a  stricken  man  wears  when  he  has 
learned  "  to  suffer  and  be  strong."  He  sat  near  a  round  table 
covered  with  worn  baize,  upon  which  one  elbow  rested  rather 
heavily,  for  he  had  tasted  little  food  for  several  days  ;  and  the 
languor  of  habitual  privation,  joined  to  strong  nervous  reaction, 
after  a  scene  of  horror,  impressed  his  person  even  more  than  his 
face.  That,  as  I  have  said,  was  pale  and  worn,  but  tranquil  and 
composed  to  a  degree  that  startled  those  who  looked  upon 
him,  for  the  old  man  was  waiting  there  to  be  examined  on  a 
charge  of  murder,  and  men  shuddered  to  see  the  calmness 
upon  his  features.  It  seemed  to  them  nothing  but  hardened 
indifference,  the  composure  of  guilt  that  had  ceased  to  feel 
its  own  enormity. 

Close  by  this  man  sat  two  females,  an  old  woman  and  a  girl, 
not  weeping,  they  had  no  tears  left,  but  they  sat  with  heavy, 
mournful  eyes  gazing  upon  the  floor.  Marks  of  terrible  suffering 
were  visible  in  their  faces,  and  in  the  dull,  hopeless  apathy  of 
their  motionless  silence.  Now  and  then  a  low  sigh  rose  and  died 
•upon  the  pale  lips  of  the  girl,  but  it  was  faint  as  that  which 
exhales  from  a  flower  which  has  been  trodden  to  death,  and  the 
poor  girl  was  only  conscious  that  the  pain  at  her  heart  was  a 
little  sharper  that  instant  than  it  had  been. 

The  woman,  pale,  still,  and  grief-stricken  in  every  feature  and 
limb,  did  not  even  sigh.  It  seemed  as  if  the  breath  must  have 
frozen  upon  her  cold  lips,  she  seemed  so  utterly  chilled,  body 
and  soul. 

An  officer  of  the  police  stood  just  within  the  room,  not  one 
of  those  burly,  white-coated  characters  we  find  always  in  Eng 
lish  novels,  but  a  tall,  slender  and  gentlemanly  person,  who 
regarded  the  group  it  had  been  his  duty  to  arrest  with  a  grave 
and  compassionate  glance.  True,  he  searched  the  old  man's 
face  as  those  who  hate  studied  the  human  lineaments  strive  to 
read  the  secrets  of  a  soul  in  their  expression — bat  there  was 
nothing  rude  either  in  his  look  or  manner. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  269 

After  awhile  the  officer  remembered  that  his  prisoners  had 
not  tasted  food  since  the  day  previous,  and,  with  a  pang  of  self- 
reproach,  he  addressed  them. 

"You  are  worn  out  for  want  of  food — I  should  have  remem 
bered  this  !"  he  said,  approaching  the  table  ;  "I  will  order  some 
coffee." 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  and  turned  his  grateful  eyes 
upon  the  officer. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  gentle  smile,  "they  are  hungry;  a  lit 
tle  coffee  will  do  them  good." 

The  young  female  looked  up  and  softly  waved  her  head ;  but 
the  other  continued  motionless,  she  had  heard  nothing. 

The  officer  whispered  to  a  person  outside  the  door,  and  then 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room  like  a  sentinel,  but  tread 
ing  very  lightly,  as  if  subdued  by  the  silent  grief  over  which  he 
kept  guard. 

Directly  the  coffee  was  brought  in,  with  bread  and  fragments 
of  cold  meat. 

"Come  now,"  said  the  officer,  cheerfully,  "take  something  to 
give  you  strength.  The  examination  may  be  a  long  one,  and  I 
have  seen  powerful  men  sink  under  a  first  examination — take 
something  to  keep  you  up,  or  you  will  get  nervous,  and  admit 
more  than  a  wise  man  should." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  meekly,  "  you  are  right,  they  will 
want  strength — so  shall  I."  He  took  one  of  the  tin-cups  which 
had  been  brought  half  full  of  coffee,  and  reached  it  toward  the 
woman. 

"  Wife  1"  he  said,  bending  toward  her. 

The  poor  woman  started,  and  looked  at  him  through  her 
wild,  heavy  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Wilcox?     What  is  it  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"  You  observe  she  is  almost  beside  herself,"  said  the  old  man 
addressing  the  officer,  and  his  face  grew  troubled — "what  can  I 
do?" 

"  Oh  !  these  things  are  very  common.  She  must  be  roused  1" 
answered  the  man,  kindly.  "  Speak  to  her  again." 


270  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

The  old  man  stooped  over  his  wife,  and  laid  his  hand  gently 
upon  hers.  She  did  not  move.  He  grasped  her  thin  fingers, 
and  tears  stood  in  his  eyes;  still  she  did  not  move.  He  stood  a 
moment  gazing  in  her  face,  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 
He  hesitated,  looked  at  the  officer  half  timidly,  and  bending 
down,  kissed  the  old  woman  on  the  forehead. 

That  kiss  broke  up  the  ice  in  her  heart.  She  stood  up  and 
began  to  weep. 

"  You  spoke  to  me,  Wilcox — what  was  it  you  wanted  ?  I 
am  better  now — quite  well.  What  is  it  you  wanted  me  to  do  ?" 

"  He  only  wishes  you  to  eat  and  drink  something,"  said  the 
officer,  deeply  moved. 

"  Eat  and  drink — have  we  got  anything  to  eat  and  drink  ? 
That  is  always  his  way  when  we  are  short,  urging  us,  and  hungry 
himself." 

"  But  there  is  enough  for  all,"  said  the  old  man.  "  See,  I 
too  will  eat,  and  Julia  1" 

"  Why,  if  there  is  enough  we  will  all  eat,  why  not,"  said  the 
poor  woman,  with  a  dim  smile. 

She  took  the  coffee,  tasted  it,  and  looked  around  the  room 
with  vague  curiosity. 

"What  is  all  this  ? — where  are  we  now,  Wilcox?"  she  said, 
in  a  low,  frightened  voice. 

The  old  man  kept  his  eyes  bent  on  hers,  they  were  full  of 
trouble,  and  this  stimulated  her  to  question  him  again. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  I  remember  walking,  wading,  it  seemed  to 
me,  neck  deep  through  a  crowd,  trying  to  keep  up  with  yon. 
Some  one  said  they  were  taking  us  to  prison  ;  that  I  had  done 
nothing,  and  they  would  not  keep  me.  That  you  and  Julia 
would  stay,  but  I  must  go  into  the  street,  because  a  wife  could 
not  bear  witness  against  her  husband,  but  a  grandchild  could. 
Have  I  been  crazy,  or  walking  in  my  sleep,  Wilcox  ?" 

"  No,  wife,  you  are  worn  out — frightened  ;  drink  some  more 
of  the  coffee,  by  and  bye  all  will  be  clear  to  you." 

The  old  woman  obeyed  him,  and  drank  eagerly  from  the  cup 
in  her  hand.  Then  she  looked  on  her  husband,  on  Julia,  and 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  271 

the  officer,  as  if  striving  to  make  out  why  they  were  all  together 
in  that  strange  place.  All  at  once  she  set  down  the  cup  and 
drew  a  heavy  breath. 

41 1  remember,"  she  said,  mournfully — "  I  remember  now  that 
dead  man,  with  his  open  eyes  and  white  clenched  teeth  ;  I  know 
who  he  was — I  knew  it  at  first." 

The  officer  drew  a  step  nearer  and  listened,  the  spirit  of  his 
vocation  was  strong  within  him.  There  might  be  important 
evidence  in  her  words,  and  for  a  moment  the  humane  man  was 
lost  in  the  acute  officer.  The  prisoner  remarked  this  movement, 
and  looked  on  the  mail  with  an  expression  of  mild  rebuke. 

"  Would  you  take  advantage  of  her  unsettled  state,  or  of  the 
words  it  might  wring  from  me  ?"  he  said. 

"  No,"  answered  the  officer,  stepping  back,  abashed.  "  No, 
I  would  not  do  anything  of  the  kind,  at  least  deliberately." 

But  this  remonstrance  had  aroused  distrust  in  the  old  woman, 
she  drew  close  to  her  husband,  and  whispered  to  him — 

"  I  cannot  quite  make  it  out,  Wilcox.  The  people — the 
crowd  said  over  and  over  again  that  they  were  taking  us  to 
prison.  This  is  no  prison  !  carpets  on  the  floor,  chairs,  window 
blinds,  all  so  pretty  and  snug,  with  us  eating  and  drinking  to 
gether.  This  is  no  prison,  Wilcox,  we  have  not  had  so  nice  a 
home  these  ten  years." 

"  This  is  only  a  room  in  the  prison,  not  the  one  they  will  give 
me  by  and  bye  1"  answered  the  old  man  with  a  faint  smile, 
"  that  will  be  smaller  yet." 

"  You  say  me  /"  said  the  wife,  holding  tight  to  the  hand  that 
clasped  hers.  "  Why  do  you  not  say  that  the  room — let  it  be 
what  it  will — is  large  enough  for  us  both,  husband  ?  I  say  you 
did  not  mean  that  it  will  not  hold  your  wife  too." 

The  old  man  turned  away  from  those  earnest  eyes;  he  could 
not  bear  the  look  of  mingled  terror  and  entreaty  that  filled 
them. 

"  Remember,  Wilcox,  we  have  not  spent  one  night  apart  in 
thirty  years  1" 

"  I  know  it,"  answered  the  old  man  with  quivering  lips. 


272  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  And  now  will  you  let  me  stay  with  you  ?" 

"  Ask  him,"  said  the  old  man,  turning  his  face  away,  "  ask 
him  \» 

She  let  go  her  hold  of  the  prisoner's  hand  with  great  reluc 
tance,  and  went  up  to  the  officer. 

"  You  heard  what  he  said,  you  must  know  what  I  want.  We 
have  lived  together  a  great  many  years,  more  than  your  whole 
life.  We  have  had  trouble — great  trouble,  but  always  to 
gether.  Tell  me — can  we  stay  together  yet  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  man,  deeply  moved.  "  Your  hus 
band  is  charged  with  a  crime  that  requires  strict  prison  rules." 

"  I  know,  he  is  charged  with  murder  !  but  you  see  how  inno 
cent  he  is,"  answered  the  wife,  and  all  the  holy  faith,  the  pure, 
beautiful  love  born  in  her  youth  and  strengthened  in  her  age, 
kindled  over  those  wrinkled  features — "you  see  how  innocent 
he  is !" 

The  man  checked  a  slight  wave  of  the  head,  for  he  would  not 
appear  to  doubt  that  old  man's  innocence,  strong  as  the  evidence 
was  against  him. 

"You  will  not  send  me  away!"  said  the  old  woman,  still 
regarding  him  with  great  anxiety. 

"I  have  no  power — it  is  not  for  me  to  decide — such  things 
have  been  done.  In  minor  offences,  I  have  known  wives  to 
remain  in  prison,  but  never  in  capital  cases  that  I  remember." 

"  But  some  one  has  the  power.  It  is  only  for  a  little  while 
— it  cannot  be  for  more  than  a  week  or  two  that  they  will  keep 
him,  you  know." 

"  It  may  be — from  my  heart  I  hope  so — but  I  can  answer  for 
nothing,  I  have  no  power." 

"Who  has  the  power? — what  can  we  do?" 

It  was  the  young  girl  who  spoke  now.  The  entreaties  of  her 
grandmother — the  tremulous  voice  of  her  grandsire,  at  length 
aroused  her  feelings  from  the  icy  stillness  that  had  crept  over 
them.  The  mist  cleared  away  from  her  eyes,  and  though  heavy 
with  sleeplessness  and  grief,  they  began  to  kindle  with  aroused 
animation. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  273 

"No  one  at  present,  my  poor  girl — nothing  can  be  done  till 
after  the  examination." 

Julia  had  drawn  close  to  her  grandmother,  and  grasped  a 
fold  of  her  faded  dress  with  one  hand.  The  officer  could  not 
turn  his  eyes  from  her  face,  so  sad,  so  mournfully  beautiful. 
He  was  about  to  utter  some  vague  words  of  comfort,  but  while 
they  were  on  his  lips  a  door  from  the  police-court  opened,  and 
a  man  looked  through,  saying  in  a  careless,  off-hand  manner, 
"bring  the  old  man  in." 

The  court-room  was  crowded  with  witnesses  ready  to  be 
examined,  lawyers,  eager  for  employment,  and  others  actuated 
by  curiosity  alone,  all  crowded  and  jostled  together  outside  the 
bar.  As  the  prisoner  entered,  the  throng  grew  denser,  pouring 
in  through  the  open  door,  and  spreading  out  into  the  vestibule 
to  the  granite  pillars,  all  pressing  forward  with  strained  eyes  to 
obtain  a  view  of  one  feeble  old  man. 

They  made  a  line  for  him  to  pass,  crushing  against  each  other 
with  their  heads  thrown  back,  and  staring  in  the  old  man's  face  as 
if  he  had  been  some  wild  animal,  till  his  thin  hand  clutched  the 
bar.  There  he  stood  as  meek  as  a  child,  with  all  those  bright, 
staring  eyes  bent  upon  him.  A  faint  crimson  flush  broke 
through  tne  wrinkles  on  his  forehead  ;  and  his  hand  stirred  upon 
the  railing  with  a  slight  shiver,  otherwise  his  gentle  composure 
was  unbroken. 

The  crowd  closed  up  as  he  passed,  but  the  two  females  cling 
ing  together,  breathless  and  wild  with  fear,  least  they  should 
be  separated  from  him,  pressed  close  upon  his  steps,  forcing 
their  way  impetuously  one  moment,  and  looking  helplessly 
around  the  next.  Still  resolutely  following  the  prisoner,  they 
won  some  little  space  at  each  step,  not  once  losing  sight  of  his 
grey  head  as  it  moved  through  the  sea  of  faces,  all  turned,  as 
they  thought,  menacingly  upon  him.  At  length  they  stood 
close  behind  the  old  man,  and,  unseen  by  the  crowd,  clung  to 
his  garments  with  their  hands. 

The  judge  bent  forward  in  his  leathern  easy-chair,  and  looked 
in  the  prisoner's  face,  not  harshly,  not  even  with  sternness. 

12* 


274  FASH10-N      AND      FAMINE. 

Had  a  lighter  offence  been  charged  upon  the  old  man,  his  face 
might  have  borne  either  of  these  expressions,  but  the  very  mag 
nitude  of  the  charge  under  investigation  gave  dignity  to  the 
judge,  and  true  dignity  is  always  gentle. 

He  stooped  forward,  therefore,  not  smiling,  but  kindly  in 
look  and  voice,  informed  the  prisoner  of  his  right,  and  cautioned 
him  not  to  criminate  himself  ignorantly  in  any  answer  he  might 
make  to  interrogations  of  the  court. 

The  old  man  raised  his  eyes,  thanked  the  judge  in  a  low  voice, 
and  waited. 

"  Your  name  ?" 

"I  am  known  in  the  city  as  Benjamin  Warren,  but  it  is  not 
my  real  name." 

"  What  is  the  real  name  then  T} 

"  I  would  rather  not  answer." 

The  old  man  spoke  mildly,  but  with  great  firmness.  The 
judge  bent  his  head.  A  dozen  pens  could  be  heard-  at  th*e 
reporters'  desk  taking  down  the  answer.  A  hush  was  on  the 
crowd  ;  every  man  leaned  forward,  breathless  and  listening. 
Those  even  in  the  vestibule  kept  still  while  the  old  man's  reply 
ran  among  them  in  whispers. 

"Did  you  know  the  man  who  was  found  dead  in  your  house 
on  the  nineteenth  of  this  month  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  the  man  well !" 

"  Where  and  when  had  you  met  before  I" 

"I  do  not  wish  to  answer  !" 

"Did  you  see  him  on  the  evening  of  the  eighteenth  ?" 

"  No  !" 

1 '  Did  evil  feeling  exist  between  you  ?" 

The  old  man  turned  a  shade  paler,  and  his  hand  shook  upon 
the  railing  ;  he  hesitated  as  if  at  a  loss  for  words  which  might 
convey  an  exact  answer. 

"  I  cannot  say  what  his  feelings  were — but  of  my  own  I  can 
speak,  having  asked  this  same  question  of  my  soul  many  times. 
William  Leicester  had  wronged  me  and  mine — but  I  forgave 
the  wrong  ;  I  had  no  evil  feeling  against  him." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  275 

"  Were  there  not  high  words  and  angry  defiance  between  yon 
that  morning  ?" 

"  He  was  angry  —  I  was  not  ;  agitated,  alarmed,  I  was  —  but 
not  angry." 

"  Were  you  alone  with  him  ?" 

"  Yes  I" 

"  How  long  ?" 

11  Maybe  ten  minutes  1" 

"  Once  more,"  said  the  judge  ;.  "  once  more  let  me  remind 
you  that  in  another  court  these  answers  may  be  used  to  your 
prejudice.  Now  take  time,  you  have  no  counsel,  so  take  time 
for  reflection  before  you  reply.  What  business  had  Leicester 
with  you  ?  —  what  was  the  subject  of  conversation  between 
you  ?" 

The  old  man  bent  his  forehead  to  the  railing,  and  thus  stood 
motionless  without  answering.  His  own  honest  sense  told  him 
that  every  question  that  he  refused  to  answer  gave  rise  to 
doubt,  and  kindled  some  new  prejudice  against  him.  His  obvi 
ous  course  was  silence,  or  a  frank  statement  of  the  truth.  He 
raised  his  head,  and  addressed  the  judge  gently  as  he  might 
have  consulted  with  a  friend. 

"If  I  have  a  right  to  refuse  answers  to  a  part  of  what  you 
ask  me,  may  I  not,  by  the  same  right,  remain  silent  ?" 

"There  is  no  law  which  forces  you  to  answer  where  a  reply 
will  prejudice  your  cause." 

"  Will  anything  I  can  say  help  my  cause  ?" 


"Then  I  will  be  silent.  But  I  never  lifted  my  hand  against 
that  man  —  never,  so  help  me  God  !" 

The  judge  felt  this  to  be  a  wise  conclusion,  and  a  faint  gleam 
of  satisfaction  came  to  his  lips.  The  meek  dignity  of  that  old 
men,  the  beautiful  pale  face  now  and  then  peering  out  from 
behind  his  poverty-stricken  garments  —  the  feeble  old  woman 
crowding  close  to  his  side,  all  had  aroused  his  sympathy.  It 
was  impossible  to  look  on  that  group  and  believe  any  one  of 
those  feeble  creatures  guilty  of  the  blood  that  had  reddened 


276  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

their  poverty-stricken  hearth,  and  yet  the  evidence  had  Deen 
fearfully  strong  before  the  coroner's  inquest. 

Some  commotion  arose  in  the  crowd  after  this.  Men  began 
to  whisper  opinions  to  each  other — now  and  then  a  rude  joke  or 
laugh  rose  from  the  vestibule.  People  began  to  circulate  in 
and  out  at  the  various  doors,  and  during  all  this  several  wit 
nesses  were  examined.  These  persons  had  seen  a  gentleman, 
well,  nay,  elegantly  dressed,  enter  the  miserable  basement  occu 
pied  by  the  prisoner  and  his  family,  very  early  on  the  morning 
of  the  nineteenth.  One,  a  person  who  lived  in  the  front  base 
ment,  testified  to  high  words,  and  a  sound  as  if  some  one  had 
stamped  several  times  on  the  floor.  Then  he  heard  quick  foot 
steps  along  the  entry  ;  saw  the  stranger  an  instant  in  the  front 
area,  and  then  heard  him  go  back  again.  This  excited  consi 
derable  curiosity  in  the  witness,  who  opened  the  door  of  his  own 
room  and  looked  out.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  stranger 
going,  quickly,  through  the  next  door,  and  saw  two  females. 

The  old  woman  and  girl  now  standing  behind  the  prisoner 
were  crouching  in  the  back  end  of  the  entry,  apparently  much 
frightened,  for  both  were  pale  ;  and  the  old  woman  wrung  her 
hands  while  the  girl  wept  bitterly.  A  little  after,  perhaps  two 
minutes,  this  man  heard  a  sound  from  the  next  room,  as  if  of 
some  heavy  body  falling  ;  this  was  followed  by  a  hush  that  made 
him  shiver  from  head  to  foot.  He  went  out  and  saw  the  two 
females  clinging  together,  and  creeping  pale  and  terror-stricken 
up  to  the  door,  which  the  old  woman  tried  to  oj>en,  but  could 
not,  her  hands  shook  so  violently. 

The  witness  himself  turned  the  latch  and  looked  in,  leaning 
over  the  females,  who,  uttering  a  low  cry,  stood  motionless, 
blocking  up  the  entrance.  He  saw  the  stranger  lying  upon  the 
floor,  stretched  back  in  the  agony  of  a  fierce  death  pang ;  his 
teeth  were  clenched ;  his  eyes  wide  open  ;  the  chin  protruded 
upward ;  and  both  hands  were  groping  and  clutching  at  the 
bare  boards. 

While  the  witness  looked  on,  the  limbs,  half  gathered  up  and 
strained  against  the  floor,  gave  way,  and  settled  down  like 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  277 

ridges  of  withered  grass.  The  room  was  badly  lighted,  but  it 
seemed  to  the  witness  that  there  was  some  faint  motion,  after 
this  a  shudder,  or  it  might  be  a  fold  of  the  dead  man's  clothes 
settling  around  him,  but  except  this  all  signs  of  life  went  out 
from  the  body. 

Then  the  witness  had  time  to  see  the  other  objects  in  the 
room.  The  first  thing  that  his  eyes  fell  upon  was  the  face  of 
old  Mr.  Warren,  the  palest,  the  most  deathly  face  he  ever  saw 
on  a  living  man ;  he  was  stooping  over  the  corpse,  grasping 
what  seemed  a  handful  of  snow,  stained  through  and  through 
with  blood  which  he  pressed  down  upon  the  dead  man's  side. 

The  witness  grew  wild  with  the  terror  of  this  scene.  He 
pushed  the  two  females  forward  and  went  in.  The  prisoner  look 
ed  up,  still  pressing  his  hand  upon  the  dead  man ;  his  lips  moved, 
and  he  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  On  stooping  down,  the 
witness  saw  that  the  stained  mass  clenched  in  the  old  man's  fin 
gers  was  one  side  of  a  white  silk  vest,  clutched  up  with  masses  of 
fine  linen,  which  the  dead  man  had  worn.  He  also  saw  a  knife 
lying  on  the  floor  wet  to  the  haft.  After  a  minute  or  so,  the 
prisoner  spoke,  apparently  feeling  the  body  grow  stiff  under  his 
hand  ;  he  turned  his  head  with  a  piteous  look,  and  whispered — 
"What  can  we  do?" 

The  witness  stated  that  his  answer  was  "  Nothing — the  man 
is  dead  !" 

Then  the  old  man  got  up,  and  went  to  a  bed  huddled  on  the 
floor  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  where  his  wife  and  grand-daughter 
had  dropped,  when  the  witness  pushed  them  with  unconscious 
violence  from  the  threshold.  He  said  something  in  a  low  voice 
to  the  woman,  and  she  answered — 

"  Oh,  Wilcox,  tell  me  that  you  did  not  do  it  !" 

The  prisoner  looked  at  her — at  first  he  seemed  amazed  as  if 
some  horrid  thought  had  just  struck  him,  then  he  looked  grieved, 
wounded  to  the  heart.  The  expression  that  came  upon  his  face 
was  enough  to  make  one  cry,  but  his  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was 
even  worse  than  the  look  ;  it  seemed  choked  up  with  tears,  that 
he  could  not  shed. 


278  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  My  wife  1"  he  said  nothing  more,  but  that  was  enough  to 
make  the  old  woman  cover  her  face  with  both  hands  and  sob 
like  a  child.  Julia,  his  grandchild,  who  had  been  sitting  white 
and  still  as  death  till  then,  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  old  man's  face, 
and  you  could  see  them  deepen  with  sorrowful  astonishment,  as 
if  she  too  had  been  suddenly  wounded.  The  look  of  horror  died 
on  her  features,  leaving  them  full  of  tenderness.  She  arose  with 
the  look  of  an  angel,  and  clasping  her  hands  over  the  old  man's 
arm,  as  he  stood  gazing  mournfully  upon  his  wife,  pressed  her 
head  against  his  side. 

"  Grandfather,  she  did  not  think  it.  It  was  the  terror  that 
spoke,  not  her,  not  my  grandmother  1" 

The  old  man  would  have  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head,  but  it 
was  crimson  and  wet.  He  saw  this,  and  dropped  it  again. 

The  dim  light,  the  pale  faces,  the  man  stark  and  dead  upon 
the  floor,  made  the  scene  too  painful  even  for  a  strong  man. 
The  witness  went  out  and  aroused  the  neighborhood.  He  did 
not  go  back  ;  more  courageous  men  would  have  shrunk  from 
the  scene  as  he  did. 

I  have  given  this  man's  evidence,  not  in  his  own  words.  He 
was  a  German,  and  spoke  rude  English  ;  but  the  scene  he  des 
cribed  was  only  the  more  graphic  for  that.  It  impressed  the 
judges  and  the  .crowd  ;  it  gratified  that  intense  love  of  the  hor 
rible  that  is  becoming  a  passion  in  the  masses,  and  yet  softened 
it  with  touches  of  rude  pathos,  that  also  gratified  the  populace. 
Here  and  there  you  saw  a  wet  eye  in  the  crowd.  Men  who  were 
strangers  to  each  other,  exchanged  whispered  wishes  that  the 
prisoner  might  be  found  innocent.  The  old  woman  and  her 
grand-daughter  became  objects  of  unceasing  curiosity.  Men 
pressed  forward  to  get  a  sight  at  them.  The  reporters  paused 
to  study  their  features,  and  to  take  an  inventory  of  their  poverty- 
stricken  garments. 

Other  witnesses  were  called,  all  testifying  to  like  facts,  that 
served  to  fasten  the  appearances  of  guilt  more  closely  upon  that 
fallen  old  man.  When  all  had  been  examined  but  the  grand 
daughter,  the  excitement  became  intense;  the  crowd  pressed 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  279 

closer  to  the  bar;  those  in  the  vestibule  rushed  in,  filling  every 
corner  of  the  room. 

The  poor  girl  moved  when  her  name  was  pronounced,  and 
with  difficulty  mounted  the  step  which  lifted  her  white  face  to 
a  level  with  the  judge.  The  little  hands  grasped  the  railing 
till  every  drop  of  blood  was  driven  from  the  strained  fingers ;  but 
for  this  she  must  have  fallen  to  the  earth,  for  there  was  no 
strength  in  her  limbs,  no  strength  at  her  heart,  save  that  which 
one  fixed  solemn  thought  gave.  There  was  something  deeper 
than  the  pallor  of  fear  in  those  beautiful  features — something 
more  sublime  than  sorrow  in  the  clear  violet  eyes  which  she 
lifted  to  the  magistrate.  He  saw  her  lips  move,  and  bent  for 
ward  to  catch  the  sound  of  words  that  she  seemed  to  be 
uttering, — 

"  I  cannot  answer  any  questions ;  don't  ask  me,  sir, 
please  don't  1" 

He  caught  these  words.  He  saw  the  look  of  meek  courage 
that  spoke  even  more  forcibly  than  the  tremulous  lips.  No  one 
saw  the  look,  or  heard  the  voice,  but  himself,  not  even  the  pris 
oner;  for  age  had  somewhat  dulled  his  ear.  The  face,  the  look, 
the  gentle  bearing  of  this  poor  girl,  filled  the  judge  with  com 
passion.  It  is  a  horrible  thing  for  any  law  to  force  evidence 
from  one  loving  heart  that  may  cast  another  .into  the  grave. 
The  magistrate  had  never  felt  the  cruelty  so  much  before.  The 
questions  that  he  should  have  propounded  sunk  back  upon  his 
heart.  It  seemed  like  torturing  a  lamb  with  all  the  flock  look 
ing  on. 

Still,  the  magistrates  of  our  courts  learn  hard  lessons  even 
of  juvenile  depravity;  not  to  be  suspicious  would,  in  them,  be  a 
living  miracle.  This  girl  might  be  prompted  by  advice,  and 
thus  artfully  acting  as  the  tool  of  some  lawyer.  You  would  not 
look  in  her  eyes  and  believe  it,  but  soft  eyes  sometimes  brood 
over  falsehood  that  would  make  you  tremble.  No  one  is  better 
aware  of  this  than  the  acute  magistrate;  still  there  is  some 
thing  in  pure  simplicity  that  convinces  the  heart  long  before  the 
judgment  has  power  to  act. 


280  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Who  told  you  not  to  answer  my  questions  ?"  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"No  one!" 

"  Then  why  refuse  ?" 

"  Because  my  grandfather  never  killed  the  man,  but  what  I 
should  say,  might  make  it  seem  as  if  he  did." 

"  But  do  you  know  that  is  contempt  of  court — a  punishable 
offence." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  !" 

"  That  I  have  power  to  make  you  answer  ?" 

A  faint  beautiful  smile  flitted  across  her  face.  You  might 
fancy  a  youthful  martyr  smiling  thus  when  threatened  with  death 
by  fire.  It  disturbed  in  no  degree  the  humility  of  her  demeanor, 
but  that  one  gleam  of  the  strength  within  her  satisfied  the 
magistrate. 

Not  even  the  reporters  had  been  able  to  catch  a  word  of  the 
conversation.  His  dignity  was  in  no  way  committed.  He  re 
solved  to  waive  the  cruel  power,  which  would  have  wrung  accusa 
tion  from  that  helpless  creature  unnecessarily  ;  for  the  evidence 
that  had  gone  before  was  quite  sufficient  to  justify  a  commit 
ment. 

"We  shall  not  require  the  evidence  of  this  young  girl,"  he 
said,  addressing  a  fellow-magistrate,  who  had  been  writing  qui 
etly  during  the  proceedings. 

"  No,"  answered  the  magistrate,  without  checking  his  pen  or 
raising  his  head,  "  what  is  the  use  ?  The  story  of  that  German 
was  enough.  I  should  have  committed  him  after  that.  The 
poor  girl  is  frightened  to  death.  Let  her  go  !" 

"  But  in  the  other  court,  there  she  will  be  wanted  1" 

"  True,  she  must  be  kept  safe.  Anvbody  forthcoming  with 
the  bonds  ?" 

"  I  fear  not.     It  seems  hard  to  keep  the  poor  thing  in  prison!" 

"  Like  caging  a  blackbird  !"  answered  the  man,  racing  over 
the  paper  with  his  gold-mounted  pen.  "  Hard,  but  necessary  ; 
bad  laws  must  be  kept  the  same  as  good  ones,  my  dear  fellow  ! 
Disgrace  to  civilization,  and  all  that,  but  the  majesty  of  the  law 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  281 

must  De  maintained,  even  though  it  does  shut  up  nice  little  girls 
with  the  offscourings  of  the  earth." 

"  It  goes  against  my  heart  ?"  answered  the  sitting  magistrate 
with  a  sigh.  "  It  seems  like  casting  newly  fallen  snow  before  a 
herd  of  wild  animals.  I  never  hated  to  sign  my  name  so  much  1" 

"  Must  be  done  though.  You  have  stretched  a  point  to  save 
her.  Just  now,  the  reporters  were  eyeing  you.  Another  step 
of  leniency,  and  down  comes  the  press  1" 

"  I  shall  act  rightly  according  to  my  own  judgment,  notwith 
standing  the  press." 

"  A  beautiful  sentiment,  only  don't  let  those  chaps  hear  it. 
Would  not  appreciate  the  thing  at  all  1" 

The  sitting  magistrate  spoke  the  truth.  Never  in  his  life  had 
he  signed  papers  of  commitment  so  reluctantly  ;  but  they  were 
made  out  at  length,  and  handed  to  the  officer.  The  old  man 
was  conducted  from  the  bar  one  way,  and  a  strange  officer  took 
Julia  by  the  hand,  forcing  her  through  tbje  crowd  in  another  di 
rection.  At  first  she  supposed  that  they  were  going  with  her 
grandfather.  When  they  were  separated  in  the  crowd,  she 
began  to  struggle  ;  a  faint  wail  broke  from  her  lips,  and  the 
officer  was  compelled  to  cast  his  arm  around  her  waist,  thus  half 
carrying  her  through  the  crowd. 

The  woman  had  followed  her  husband  and  grandchild  me 
chanically,  but  when  they  were  separated,  the  cry  that  broke 
from  Julia's  lips  made  her  turn  and  rush  back;  the  crowd  closed 
in  around  her  ;  she  cast  one  wild  look  after  the  prisoner,  another 
toward  the  spot  whence  the  wail  came.  They  both  were  lost 
through  a  door  in  the  dark  vistas  of  the  prison.  She  saw  an 
arm  flung  wildly  up  as  if  beckoning  her,  and  rushed  forward. 
blindly  struggling  against  the  crowd.  In  the  press  of  people, 
she  was  hurried  forth  into  the  vestibule,  and  there  leaning,  in 
dreary  helplessness,  against  one  of  the  massy  stone  pillars,  she 
stood  looking  vaguely  around  for  her  husband  and  child.  It 
was  a  heart-rending  sight,  but  every  day  those  ponderous  walls 
witness  scenes  equally  mournful. 


282  FASHION      AND     FAMINE 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE     IMPRISONED    WITNESS. 

When  souls  come  freshly  from  their  God, 

They  breathe  the  very  air  of  Heaven  I 
To  children  on  this  earthly  sod, 

Angelic  trusts  are  sometimes  given. 

And  like  bright  spirits  wandering  through 
.  The  haunted  depths  of  tears  and  sin, 

Their  gentle  words  drop  down  like  dew, 
Where  wisdom  fails,  they  charm  and  win. 

IT  is  strange — nay,  it  is  horrible — that  so  much  of  barbarism 
still  lingers  in  the  laws  and  customs  of  a  free  land.  Without 
crime  or  offence  of  any  kind,  a  person  may  be  taken,  here  in  the 
city  of  New  York,  and  confined  for  months  among  the  most 
hideous  malefactors  ;  his  self-respect  broken  down  ;  his  associa 
tions  brutalized  ;  and  all,  that  the  law  may  be  fulfilled.  What 
must  that  law  be  which  requires  oppression,  that  it  may  render 
justice  ? 

In  New  York,  the  poor  witness— a  man  who  has  the  misfor 
tune  to  know  anything  of  a  crime  before  the  courts,  is  himself 
exactly  in  the  place  of  a  criminal.  Like  the  malefactor,  he 
must  give  bonds  for  his  prompt  appearance  on  the  day  of  trial, 
or  lacking  the  influence  to  obtain  these,  must  himself  share  the 
prison  of  the  very  felon  his  evidence  will  condemn.  Strangers 
thus — sea-faring  men,  and  persons  destitute  of  friends — are  often 
imprisoned  for  months  among  the  very  dregs  of  humanity ;  in 
nocent,  and  yet  suffering  the  severest  penalties  of  guilt. 

This  injustice,  so  glaring  that  a  savage  would  blush  to  acknow 
ledge  it,  exists  almost  unnoticed  in  a  city  overrun  with  benevo 
lent  societies,  crowded  with  churches,  and  inundated  with  sympa 
thies  for  the  wronged  of  every  nation  or  city  on  earth.  If  osten 
tatious  charity  would,  for  a  time,  give  way  to  simple  justice,  New 
York  like  all  the  American  cities  we  know  of,  would  obtain  for 
itself  more  respect  abroad  and  more  real  prosperity  at  home. 

It  was  under  this  law  that  Julia  Warrexi,  a  young  creature, 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  283 

just  bursting  into  the  first  bloom  of  girlhood,  pure,  sensitive, 
and  guileless  as  humanity  can  be,  was  dragged  like  a  thief  into 
the  city  prison.  She  had  known  the  deepest  degradation  of 
poverty,  and  that  is  always  so  closely  crowded  against  crime 
in  cities,  that  it  seems  almost  impossible  to  keep  the  dew  upon 
an  innocent  nature.  But  Julia  had  been  guarded  in  her  poverty 
by  principle  so  firm,  by  love  so  holy,  that  neither  the  close 
neighborhood  of  sin  nor  the  gripe  of  absolute  want  had  power 
to  stain  the  sweet  bloom  of  a  nature  that  seemed  to  fling  off 
evil  impressions  as  the  swan  casts  off  wraterdrops  from  its  snowy 
bosom,  though  its  whole  form  is  bathed  in  them. 

This  young  creature,  in  all  her  gentle  innocence,  without 
crime,  without  even  the  suspicion  of  a  fault,  was  now  the 
inmate  of  a  prison,  the  associate  of  felons,  hand-in-hand  with 
guilt  of  a  kind  and  degree  that  had  never  entered  even  her 
imagination. 

At  first,  when  the  officer  separated  the  poor  girl  from  her 
grandparents,  she  struggled  wildly,  shrieked  for  help,  and  at 
last  fell  -to  imploring  the  man,  with  eyes  so  wild  and  eloquence 
so  startling,  that  he  paused  in  one  of  the  dark  corridors  lead 
ing  from  the  court,  and  strove  to  soothe  her,  supposing  that 
she  was  terrified  by  the  gloom  of  the  place. 

"  No,  no  !"  she  answered.  "  It  is  not  that.  I  did  not  see 
that  it  was  dark.  I  did  not  look  at  anything.  My  grand' 
father — poor  grandma !  Let  me  go  with  them.  I'm  not 
afraid.  I  don't  care  for  being  in  prison,  only  let  me  stay 
where  they  are !" 

"  Your  grandmother  is  not  here  I" 

"  ]S"ot  here — not  here  I"  answered  the  poor  creature,  wildly 
and  aghast.  "  Then  what  has  become  of  her  ?  Let  me  go — 
let  me  go,  I  say.  She  will  die  1" 

Julia  unlocked  the  hands  that  she  liad  clasped,  flung  back 
the  hair  from  her  face,  and  fled  down  the  corridor  so  swiftly, 
that  the  keeper,  taken  by  surprise,  was  left  far  behind.  An 
officer,  coming  in  from  the  court,  seized  her  by  the  arm  as  she 
was  passing  him. 


284  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"Not  so  fast,  canary  bird;  not  quite  so  fast.  It  takes 
swifter  wings  than  yours  to  get  out  of  this  cage." 

Julia  looked  at  the  man,  breathless  with  affright. 

"  What  do  you  hold  me  for  ?  Why  can't  I  go  ?"  she  gasped 
forth. 

"  Because  you  are  a  prisoner,  little  one  1" 

"  But  I  have  done  nothing  !" 

"Nobody  ever  does  anything  that  comes  here,"  said  this 
man,  with  a  contemptuous  smile.  "  Never  were  so  many  inno 
cent  people  crowded  together." 

As  he  spoke,  the  man  tightened  his  hold  on  her  arm,  and 
moved  forward,  forcing  her  along  with  him. 

The  poor  creature  winced  under  the  pain  of  his  grasp. 

"You  hurt  my  arm,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Do  I  ?"  replied  the  man,  affected  by  the  despondency  of 
her  tone.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  do  that ;  but  it  would  be  diffi 
cult  to  touch  a  little,  delicate  thing  like  you  without  leaving  a 
mark.  Come,  don't  cry.  I  did  not  hurt  you  on  purpose." 

"  I  know  it.  It  is  not  that,"  answered  the  girl,  lifting  her 
eyes,  from  which  the  big  tears  were  dropping  like  rain. 

"  Well,  well,  go  quietly  to  the  women's  department.  They 
will  not  keep  you  long,  unless  you  have  been  stealing,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort." 

"  Stealing!"  faltered  the  girl,  "  stealing  1"  The  color  flashed 
into  her  pale,  wet  cheeks  ;  a  faint,  scornful  smile  quivered  over 
her  lips. 

The  officer  from  whom  she  had  fled  now  came  up.  "  Come," 
he  said,  with  a  shade  of  impatience,  "  I  cannot  be  kept  waiting 
in  this  way." 

"I  am  ready!"  answered  the  poor  girl,  in  a  voice  of  utter 
despondency,  while  her  head  dropped  upon  her  bosoni.  "If  I 
am  a  prisoner,  take  me  away.  But  what — what  have  I  done?" 

"  Never  mind  ;  settle  that  with  the  court.  I  am  in  a  hurry, 
so  come  along !" 

Julia  neither  expostulated  nor  attempted  to  resist. 

She  gave  her  hand  to  the  officer,  who  led  her  quickly  for- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  285 

ward.  They  threaded  the  dim,  vault-like  passage,  and  paused 
before  a  grated  door,  through  which  the  trembling  girl  could 
see  dark,  squalid  figures  moving  about  in  the  dusky  twilight 
that  filled  the  prison.  Two  or  three  faces,  haggard  and  fiend 
like,  were  pressed  up  against  the  bars.  One  was  that  of  a  negro 
woman,  scarred  with  many  a  street  brawl,  whose  inflamed  eyes 
glared  wickedly  upon  the  innocent  creature  whom  the  laws  had 
sent  to  be  her  companion. 

"  Get  back — back  with  you  1"  commanded  the  officer,  dash 
ing  his  keys  against  the  grating.  "  Your  hideous  faces  frighten 
the  poor  thing  I" 

The  faces  flitted  away,  grinning  defiance,  and  sending  back 
a  burst  of  hoarse  laughter  that  made  Julia  shiver  from  head 
to  foot.  She  drew  close  to  the  man,  clinging  to  his  garments, 
while  he  turned  the  heavy  lock  and  thrust  the  door  half  open. 
The  dim  vista  of  a  hall,  with  cells  yawning  on  one  side,  and 
filled  with  gloomy  light,  through  which  wild,  impish  figures 
wandered  restlessly  to  and  fro,  or  sat  motionless  against  the 
walls,  met  Julia's  gaze.  She  shrank  back,  clinging  desperately 
to  her  conductor — 

"  Oh,  mercy,  mercy  I  Not  here — not  here!"  she  cried,  pallid 
and  shivering. 

The  man  raised  her  firmly  in  his  arms,  and  passing  through 
the  door,  set  her  down.  She  heard  the  clank  of  keys ;  the 
shooting  of  a  heavy  bolt.  She  saw  the  shadow  of  this,  her 
last  friend,  fall  across  the  grating  ;  and  then,  in  dreary  desola 
tion,  she  sat  down  upon  a  wooden  bench,  and  leaning  her  cold 
cheek  against  the  wall,  closed  her  eyes.  The  tears  pressed 
through  those  long,  dark  eyelashes,  and  rolled,  one  by  one,  in 
heavy  drops,  over  her  face.  Her  arms  hung  helplessly  down  ; 
all  the  energies  of  her  young  life  seemed  utterly  prostrated. 

The  hall  was  full  of  women  of  all  ages,  and  bearing  every 
stamp  that  vice  or  sorrow  impresses  on  the  countenance.  Some, 
old  and  hardened  in  evil,  stood  aloof  looking  upon  the  heart- 
stricken  girl  with  their  stony,  pitiless  eyes  ;  others,  younger, 
more  reckless  and  fierce  in  their  sympathies,  gathered  around 


286          FASHION  AND  FAMINE. 

in  a  crowd,  commenting  upon  her -grief,  some  mockingly,  others 
with  a  touch  of  feeling.  Black  and  white,  all  huddled  around 
the  bench  she  occupied,  pouring  their  hot  breath  out,  till  she 
sickened  and  grew  faint,  as  if  the  boughs  of  a  Upas  tree  were 
drooping  over  her. 

"She's  sick — she's  fainting  away!"  cried  one  of  the  women 
''Bring  some  water!" 

"  No,"  cried  another.  "If  we  had  a  drop  of  brandy  now 
But  water,  bah!" 

"  It's  the  horrors — see  how  she  trembles,"  exclaimed  a 
third,  with  a  chuckle  and  a  toss  of  the  head. 

"  No  such  thing.     She's  too  young — too  handsome  !" 

"  Oh,  get  away!  Don't  I  know  the  symptoms  ?"  interrupted 
the  first  speaker,  with  a  coarse  laugh.  "  Ain't  I  young — ain't 
I  handsome  ?  Who  says  no  to  that  ?  And  yet  haven't  you 
heard  me  yell — haven't  you  heard  me  rave  with  the  hor 
rors  ?" 

"That  was  because  the  doctor  prescribes  brandy,"  interposed 
a  sly-looking  mulatto  woman,  folding  her  arms  and  turning  her 
head  saucily  on  one  side.  "  When  that  medicine  comes,  you  are 
still  enough." 

This  retort  was  followed  by  a  general  laugh,  in  which  the 
object  joined,  till  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

In  the  midst  of  this  coarse  glee,  Julia  had  fallen  like  a  with 
ered  flower,  upon  the  bench.  That  moment,  the  huge  negress, 
who  had  so  terrified  the  poor  creature  at  the  grating,  plunged 
out  from  a  cell  in  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  and  came  toward 
the  group  with  a  tin  cup  full  of  water  in  her  hand. 

Had  a  fiend  come  forth  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  it  would  not 
have  seemed  more  out  of  place  than  that  hideous  creature  under 
the  influence  of  a  kind  impulse.  She  came  down  the  hall  as 
rapidly  as  her  naked  feet,  hampered  by  an  old  pair  of  slip-shod 
shoes,  could  move.  The  dress  hung  in  rents  and  festoons  of 
dirty  and  faded  calico  around  her  gaunt  limbs,  trailing  the 
stone  floor  on  one  side,  and  lifted  high  above  her  clumsy  ankles 
on  the  other. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  287 

The  women  scattered  as  she  approached,  giving  her  a  full 
view  of  the  fainting  girl. 

"  So  you've  done  it  among  you — smothered  her.  How  dare 
you  ?  Didn't  you  see  that  I  took  a  fancy  to  her,  before  she 
came  in  ?  Let  her  alone.  I  want  a  pet,  and  she's  mine." 

"Yours!"  Why,  it  was  your  face  that  frightened  her  to 
death.  There  hasn't  been  a  bit  of  color  in  her  lips  since  she 
saw  you,"  answered  the  woman  that  had  so  eagerly  recommended 
brandy,  and  who  kept  her  place  in  spite  of  the  formidable 
negress.  "  Here,  give  me  the  water,  and  get  out  of  my 
sight." 

The  negress  pushed  this  woman  roughly  aside,  and  kneeling 
down  by  the  senseless  girl,  bathed  her  forehead  with  the 
water.  Julia  did  not  stir.  Her  face  continued  deathly  white ; 
a  faint  violet  tinge  lay  upon  her  lips  and  around  her  eyes  ;  her 
little  hands  fell  down  to  the  stone  floor  ;  her  feet  dropped 
heavily  from  the  bench.  This  position,  more  than  the  still  face 
even,  was  fearfully  like  death. 

"  Call  a  keeper,"  cried  half  a  dozen  voices,  "  she  is  scared  to 
death  !" 

"  The  doctor  I"  urged  as  many  more  voices.  "  It  will  take  a 
doctor  to  bring  her  out  of  that  fit  !" 

"We  won't  have  a  doctor,"  exclaimed  the  old  iiegress, 
stoutly.  "He'd  call  it  tremens,  and  give  her  brandy  or  lauda 
num.  I  tell  you,  she  isn't  one  of  that  sort !  Don't  believe  a 
drop  of  the  ardent  ever  touched  her  lips !" 

Again  a  coarse  laugh  broke  up  from  among  the  prisoners. 

The  negress  dashed  a  handful  of  water  across  the  poor  face 
over  which  that  laughter  floated  like  the  orgies  of  fiends  around 
a  death  couch.  She  rose  to  one  knee,  and  turned  her  fierce 
eyes  upon  the  scoffers. 

I  have  never  stained  a  page  in  my  life  with  profane  language, 
even  when  describing  a  profane  person  ;  never  have  placed  the 
name  of  God  irreverently  into  the  lips  of  an  ideal  character. 
Sooner  would  I  feel  an  oath  burning  upon  my  own  soul,  than 
register  one  where  it  might  familiarize  itself  to  a  thousand 


288  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

souls,  surprised  into  its  use  by  their  confidence  in  the  author. 
Even  here,  where  profanity  is  the  common  language  of  the 
place,  I  will  risk  a  feebler  description  in  my  own  language, 
rather  than  for  one  instant  break  through  the  rule  of  a  life. 
Yet  amid  language  and  scenes  which  I  could  not  force  this  pen 
to  write,  and  creatures,  most  of  them,  brutalized  by  vice  to  a 
degree  that  I  shrink  from  describing,  this  young  guileless  crea 
ture  was  plunged  by  the  laws  of  an  enlightened  people.  When 
she  opened  her  eyes,  that  scarred,  black  face,  less  repulsive 
from  a  touch  of  kindly  feeling,  but  hideous  still,  was  the  first 
object  that  greeted  them. 

The  woman,  as  I  have  said,  had  risen  to  one  knee.  The  holy 
name  of  God  trembled  on  her  coarse  lips,  prefacing  a  torrent  of 
abusive  expostulation  that  broke  from  them  in  the  rudest  and 
most  repulsive  language. 

"You  needn't  laugh,  don't  I  know  better — fifty  times  better 
than  any  of  you  ?  Haven't  I  been  here — this  is  the  fifteenth  time? 
Don't  I  go  to  my  country-seat  on  Blackwell's  Island  every 
summer  of  nay  life  ?  How  many  times  have  you  been  there,  the 
best  of  you,  I  should  like  to  ask  ?  Twice,  three  times.  Bah ! 
what  should  you  know  of  life  ?  Stand  out  of  the  way.  She's 
beginning  to  sob.  You  shan't  stifle  her  again,  I  promise  you. 
It  was  the  water  did  it.  Which  of  you  could  be  got  out  of  a 
fit  with  water — tell  me  that  ?  Here,  just  come  one  of  you  and 
feel  her  breath,  while  the  tears  are  in  It — sweet  as  a  rose,  moist 
as  dew.  I  tell  you,  she  never  tasted  anything  stronger  than 
bread  and  milk  in  her  life  I" 

The  woman  clenched  this  truth  with  an  imprecation  on 
herself  which  made  the  young  girl  start  up  and  look  wildly 
around,  as  if  she  believed  herself  encompassed  by  a  band  of 
demons. 

"What  is  the  matter?  Are  you  afraid?"  said  the  white 
prisoner,  that  had  formerly  spoken,  bending  over  her. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,"  said  the  n  egress,  with  another  oath. 
"It's  niy  pet,  I  tell  you." 

The  terrible  creature,  whose  very  kindness  was  brutal,  reached 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  289 

forth  her  arm  and  attempted  to'  draw  Julia  to  her  side,  but  the 
poor  girl  recoiled,  shuddering  from  the  touch,  and  fell  upon  her 
knees,  covering  her  ears  with  both  hands. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me?  Is  that  it?"  shouted  the  negress, 
almost  touching  the  strained  fingers  with  her  mouth. 

"  Yes,  yes  1"  broke  from  her  tremulous  lips,  and  Julia  kept 
her  eyes  upon  the  woman  ia  a  wild  stare.  "  I  am  afraid." 

"This  is  gratitude,"  said  the  woman,  fiercely.  "I  brought 
her  to,  and  she  looks  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  mad  dog." 

Julia  cowered  under  the  fiery  glance  with  which  these  words 
were  accompanied.  This  only  exasperated  her  hideous  friend, 
and  with  an  angry  grip  of  the  teeth,  she  seized  one  little  hand, 
forcing  it  away  from  the  ear,  that  was  on  the  instant  filled  with 
a  fresh  torrent  of  curses. 

41  Oh,  don't !     Pray,  pray.     It  is  dreadful  to  swear  so  !" 

"Swear!  Why,  I  didn't  swear — not  a  word  of  it.  Have 
been  talking  milk  and  water  all  the  time  just  for  your  sake. 
Leave  it  all  to  these  ladies,  if  I  haven't !"  said  the  woman, 
evidently  impressed  with  the  truth  of  her  assertion,  and  appeal 
ing,  with  an  air  of  simple  confidence,  to  her  fellow-prisoners : 
for  profanity  had  become  with  her  a  fixed  habit,  and  she  was 
really  unconscious  of  it. 

A  laugh  of  derision  answered  this  singular  appeal,  and  a  dozen 
voices  gave  mocking  assurance  that  there  had  been  a  mistake 
about  the  matter,  saying, 

"Oh,  no  I  old  Mag  never  swore  in  her  life." 

Tortured  by  the  wild  tumult,  and  driven  to  the  very  confines 
of  insanity,  Julia  could  scarcely  forbear  screaming  for  help.  She 
started  up,  avoiding  the  negress  with  a  desperate  spring  side- 
wise,  and  staggered  toward  the  grated  door.  It  seemed  to  her 
impossible  to  draw  a  deep  breath,  in  the  midst  of  those  wretched 
beings ! 

"  Mamma,  mamma  !"  said  a  soft,  sweet  voice,  from  one  of  the 
cells,  and  as  Julia  turned  her  face,  she  saw  through  the  narrow 
iron  door-way  the  head  of  a  child,  bending  eagerly  forward  and 
radiant  with  joyous  surprise. 

13 


290  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Julia  paused,  held  forth  both  her  trembling  hands,  and  entered 
the  cell,  smiling  through  her  tears  as  if  an  angel  had  called. 

The  child  arose  from  the  floor,  for  it  had  been  upon  its  hands 
and  knees,  and  putting  back  its  golden  hair,  that  broke  into 
waves  and  curls  in  spite  of  neglect,  with  two  soiled  and  dimpled 
hands,  it  gazed  upon  the  intruder  in  speechless  disappointment. 
Julia  saw  this,  and  her  heart  sank  again. 

"It  was  not  ine  you  wanted,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  trem 
blingly  on  the  child's  shoulder.  "You  are  sorry  that  I  came?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  child,  and  his  soft,  brown  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  "I  thought  it  was  mamma.  It  was  dark,  and  I 
could  not  see,  but  it  seemed  as  if  you  were  mamma." 

Julia  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  child.  In  that  dim  light* 
it  was  difficult  to  say  which  of  those  beautiful  faces  seemed  th& 
most  angelic. 

"  But  I  love  you.  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
that  made  the  little  boy  smile  through  his  tears.  He  fixed  hit 
eyes  upon  her  in  a  long,  earnest  gaze,  and  then  nestling  close  U 
her  side, 'murmured,  "And  I  love  you  1" 

There  was  a  narrow  bed  in  the  cell,  and  Julia  sat  down  upo? 

/  it,  lifting  the  child  to  her  knee.     In  return,  she  felt  a  little  arm 

steal  around  her  neck  and  a  warm  cheek  laid  against  her  own. 

/    The  innocent  nature  of  the  child  blended  with  that  of  the  maiden, 

as  blossoms  in  a  strange  atmosphere  may  be  supposed  to  lean 

I     toward  each  other. 

\       "  Do  they  shut  up  children  in  this  wicked  place  ?     How  came 
you  here,  darling  ?" 

"I  don't  know!"  answered  the  child,  shaking  its  beautiful 
head. 

"  But  did  you  come  alone  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !     She  came  with  me." 

"  Who — your  mamma  ?"  questioned  Julia,  so  deeply  inter 
ested  in  the  child,  that  for  the  moment,  her  own  grief  was  for 
gotten. 

"  No,  not  her.  They  call  her  my  mamma,  but  she  isn't. 
Come  here,  softly,  and  I  will  let  you  see." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  291 

He  drew  Julia  to  the  entrance,  and  pointed  with  his  finger 
toward  a  female,  who  sat  cowering  by  a  stove  a  little  distance 
up  the  passage.  There  was  something  so  picturesque  in  the 
bold,  Roman  outlines  of  this  woman's  face,  that  it  riveted  Julia's 
attention.  The  large  head  was  covered  with  masses  of  dull, 
black  hair,  gathered  up  in  a  loose  coil  behind,  and  falling  down 
the  cheeks  in  dishevelled  waves.  The  nose,  rising  in  a  haughty 
and  not  ungraceful  curve  ;  the  massive  forehead  and  heavy  chin, 
with  a  large  mouth  coral  red  and  full  of  sensual  expression,  gave 
to  that  head,  bending  downward  with  its  side-face  toward  the 
light,  the  interest  and  effect  of  some  old  picture,  which,  without 
real  beauty,  haunts  the  memory  like  an  unforgotten  sin. 

This  woman  had  evidently  received  some  injury  on  the  fore 
head,  for  a  scarlet  silk  handkerchief  was  knotted  across  it,  the 
ends  mingling  behind  with  the  neglected  braids  of  her  hair, 
which,  but  for  it,  must  have  fallen  in  coils  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders. 

Her  dress,  of  blue  barege,  had  once  been  elegant,  if  not  rich  ; 
but  in  that  place,  faded  and  soiled,  with  the  flounces  half  torn 
away,  and  the  rents  gathered  rudely  up  with  pins  that  she  had 
found  upon  the  stone-floor  of  her  prison,  it  had  a  look  of  pecu 
liar  desolation.  Every  fold  bespoke  that  flash  poverty  which 
profligacy  makes  hideous. 

A  book  with  yellow  covers,  soiled  and  torn,  lay  open  upon 
this  woman's  lap  ;  and  with  her  large,  full  arms  loosely  folded 
on  her  bosom,  she  bent  over  it  with  a  look  of  gloating  interest, 
that  betrayed  all  the  intensity  of  her  evil  nature.  You  could 
see  her  black  eyes  kindle  beneath  their  inky  lashes,  as  she  im 
patiently  dashed  over  a  leaf,  or  was  molested  in  any  way  by  the 
noise  around. 

You  could  not  look  upon  this  woman  for  an  instant  without 
feeling  the  influence  which  a  strong  character,  even  in  repose, 
fixes  upon  the  mind.  Powerful  intellect  and  strong  passions — 
the  one  utterly  untrained,  the  other  curbless  and  fierce — broke 
through  every  curve  of  her  sensual  person,,  and  every  line  of  her 
face. 


292  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

As  Julia  stood  in  the  cell-door,  with  one  arm  around  the 
child,  this  woman  chanced  to  look  ;ip,  and  caught  those  beauti 
ful  eyes  fixed  so  steadily  upon  bar.  She  returned  the  glance 
with  a  hard,  impudent  stare,  wLidi  filled  the  young  creature 
with  alarm,  while  it  served  to  fascinate  her  gaze. 

The  woman  seemed  enraged  th:it  her  glance  had  not  made 
the  stranger  cower  at  once.  Crashing  her  book  in  one  hand, 
she  arose  and  came  forward,  sweeping  her  way  through  the 
prisoners  with  that  sort  of  undulating  swagger  into  which  vice 
changes  what  was  originally  grace.  She  came  up  to  Julia  with 
an  oath  upon  her  lips,  demanding  why  she  had  been  staring  at 
her  so  ? 

Julia  did  not  answer,  but  shrunk  close  to  the  child,  who 
cringed  against  her,  evidently  terrified  by  the  menacing  attitude 
and  fierce  looks  that  his  temerity  had  provoked. 

"  Come  here,  you  little  wretch,"  exclaimed  the  termagant, 
securing  him  by  the  arm,  and  jerking  him  fiercely  through  the 
cell-door.  "  How  dare  you  speak  to  anybody  here  without 
leave  ?  Come  along,  or  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body." 

With  a  swing  of  the  arm,  that  sent  the  child  whirling  forward 
hi  fierce  leaps,  she  landed  him  at  her  old  seat,  and  sitting  down, 
crowded  the  beautiful  creature  between  her  and  the  hot  stove, 
setting  one  foot,  bursting  through  a  white  slipper  of  torn  and 
dirty  satin,  heavily  in  h^s  lap  to  hold  him  quiet,  while  she  went 
on  with  her  French  novel. 

The  poor  little  fellow  bent  his  head,  dropped  his  pretty  hands 
on  the  floor,  each  side  of  him,  and  sat  motionless  and  meek,  like 
some  heavenly  cherub  crushed  beneath  the  foot  of  a  demon. 
Once  he  struggled  a  little,  and  made  an  effort  to  creep  back, 
for  the  heat  pouring  'from  the  huge  mass  of  iron  which  stood 
close  before  him,  had  become  insupportable. 

The  woman,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  book,  put  her 
hand  down  upon  his  shoulder  with  ft  fierce  imprecation,  and 
ordered  him  to  be  quiet.  The  poor  infant  dared  not  move 
again,  though  his  face,  his  neck,  and  his  little  arms  became 
scarlet  with  the  heat,  and  perspiration  stood  upon  his  forehead 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  293 

like  rain,  saturating  liis  golden  hair,  and  even  his  garments 
He  lifted  his  soft  eyes,  full  of  terror  and  of  entreaty,  to  the 
hard  face  above  him,  but  it  was  gloating  over  one  of  those  foul 
passages  with  which  Eugene  Sue  has  cursed  the  world,  and  the 
innocent  creature  shrank  from  the  expression  as  he  had  cowered 
from  the  heat.  Tears  now  crowded  into  his  eyes,  and  he  turned 
them,  with  a  look  of  helpless  misery,  upon  the  young  girl  who 
stood  regarding  him,  with  looks  of  unutterable  pity. 

Julia  Warren  could  not  withstand  this  look.  She  was  no 
longer  timid  ;  the  prison  was  forgotten  now  ;  her  very  soul 
went  forth  in  compassion  for  the  one  being  more  helpless  than 
herself,  whom  she  might  have  the  power  to  protect.  She  went 
softly  up  to  the  woman,  and  touched  her  upon  the  arm.  Com 
passion  gave  the  young  creature  that  exquisite  tact  which 
makes  generous  impulses  so  Ireautiful. 

"Please,  madam,  let  the  child  stay  with  me  a  little  longer;  I 
will  keep  him  very  quiet  while  you  read  !" 

The  meek  demeanor,  the  soft,  sweet  tone  in  which  this  was 
uttered,  fell  upon  the  sense  like  a  handful  of  freshly  gathered  vio 
lets.  The  woman  had  loved  pure  things  once,  and  this  voice 
started  her  heart  as  if  a  gush  of  perfumed  air  had  swept  through 
it  She  looked  up  suddenly,  and  fixing  her  large,  bold  eyes 
upon  the  girl,  seemed  wondering  alike  at  her  loveliness  and 
courage  in  thus  addressing  her. 

Julia  endured  the  gaze  with  gentle  forbearance,  but  she 
could  not  keep  her  eyes  from  wandering  toward  the  child,  who, 
seizing  her  dress  with  one  hand,  was  shrouding  his  face  in  the 
folds. 

".How  came  you  here  ?"  demanded  the  woman,  rudely. 

"  I  don't  know,"  was  the*  meek  answer. 

"  Don't  know,  bah  !     What  have  you  done  ?" 
'Nothing!" 

Nothing  !"  repeated  the  woman,  with  a  sickening  sneer;  "  so 
you're  not  a  chicken  after  all  ;  know  the  ropes,  ha  !  nothing  ! 
I  never  give  that  answer — despise  it — always  have  the  courage 
to  own  what  I  have  the  courage  to  act ;  it's  original ;  I  like  it. 


294  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Take  iny  advice,  girl,  own  the  truth  and  shame  the — the  old  gen 
tleman.  He's  an  excellent  friend  of  mine,  no  doubt,  but  I  love 
to  put  the  old  fellow  out  of  countenance  with  the  truth  now 
and  then.  The  rest  of  them  never  do  it  ;  not  one  of  them  ever 
committed  a  crime  in  their  lives — unfortunate,  nothing  more." 

11  Will  you  let  me  take  up  the  child  ?"  said  Julia,  with  a 
pleading  smile;  "  see,  the  heat  is  killing  him  !" 

The  woman  glanced  sharply  at  the  little  creature,  half  moved 
her  foot,  and  then  pressed  it  down  again,  and  drew  back  a 
little,  dragging  the  child  with  her;  but  she  resisted  the  effort 
which  Julia  made  to  release  him. 

"  Not  now,  the  child's  mine  ;  I'll  make  him  as  wicked  as 
I  like  myself,  but  he  shan't  run  wild  among  the  prisoners  !" 

"  Are  you  really  his  mother  ?"  said  Julia. 

"Yes,  I  am  really  his  mother!"  was  the  mocking  reply; 
"  what  have  you  against  it  ?" 

"Nothing,  nothing — only  I  should  think  you  would  be  afraid 
to  have  him  here  I" 

"  And  your  mother — she  isn't  afraid  to  have  you  here,  I 
suppose." 

"  I  have  no  mother  !"  said  Julia,  in  a  tone  of  sadness,  that 
made  itself  felt  even  upon  the  bad  nature  of  her  listener. 

"No  mother,  well  don't  mourn  for  that,"  said  the  woman, 
with  a- touch  of  passionate  feeling.  "  Thank  God  for  it,  if  you 
believe  in  a  God  ;  she  won't  follow  you  here  with  her  white, 
miserable  face  ;  she  won't  starve  to  keep  you  from  sin — or  die 
— die  by  inches,  I  tell  you,  because  all  is  of  no  use.  You  won't  see 
her  crowded  into  a  pine  coffin,  and  tumbled  into  Potter's  Field, 
and  feel — feel  in  the  very  core  of  your  heart  that  you  have  sent 
her  there.  Thank  God — thank  God,  I  say,  miserable  girl,  that 
you  have  no  mother  !" 

The  woman  had  risen  as  she  spoke,  her  imposing  features, 
her  whole  form  quivering  with  passion.  Tears  crowded  into 
her  lurid  eyes,  giving  them  fire,  depth,  and  expression.  She 
ceased  speaking,  fell  upon  the  seat  again,  and,  covering  her 
face  with  the  soiled  novel,  sobbed  aloud  . 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  295 

The  child,  released  from  the  bondage  of  her  foot,  stood  up, 
trembling  beneath  the  storm  of  her  words;  but  when  she  fell 
down  and  began  to  weep,  his  lips  grew  tremulous,  his  little 
chest  began  to  heave,  and  climbing  up  the  stool  upon  which 
his  mother  cr6uched,  he  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  temple. 

This  angel  kiss  fell  upon  her  forehead  like  a  drop  of  dew; 
she  dashed  the  novel  from  her  face,  and  flung  her  arm  over  the 
child. 

"  Look  !"  she  cried,  with  a  fierce  sob,  turning  her  dusky  and 
tear-stained  face  upon  the  young  girl.  "He  has  got  a  mother; 
look  on  her,  and  then  dare  to  mourn  because  you  have 
none!" 

"  But  I  have  a  grandfather  and  grandmother  that  love  me 
as  if  I  were  their  own  child,"  said  Julia,  deeply  moved  by  the 
fierce  anguish  thus  revealed  to  her. 

41  And  where  are  they  ?" 

"  My  grandfather  is  here," 

"  Here!     How  came  it  about?     What  is  he  charged  with?" 

Julia's  lips  grew  pale  at  the  word  "murder!"  Even  the 
woman  seemed  appalled  by  the  mention  of  a  crime  so  much 
more  serious  than  she  had  expected. 

"  But  you — they  do  not  charge  you  with  murder  ?"  she 
questioned,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  No!"  said  Julia,  innocently.  "  They  charge  me  with  being 
a  witness!" 

Once  more  a  torrent  of  fiery  imprecations  burst  from  the  lips 
of  that  miserable  woman — imprecations  against  a  law  hideous 
almost  as  her  own  sins.  Julia  recoiled,  aghast,  beneath  this 
profane  violence.  The  child  dropped  down  from  the  stool,  and 
crept  to  her  side,  weeping.  The  woman  saw  this,  and  checked 
herself. 

"  Then  you  have  really  done  nothing  ?" 

Julia  shook  her  head  and  smiled  sadly. 

"  A  beautiful  country — beautiful  laws,  that  send  an  innocent 
child  to  take  lessons  in  life  here,  and  from  women  like  us.  Oh, 
my  dear,  it's  a  great  pity  you  haven't  been  in  the  Penitentiary 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

half  a  dozen  times ;  lots  of  benevolent  people  would  be  ready 
to  reform  you  at  any  expense  then." 

Julia  smiled  dimly.  She  did  not  quite  understand  what  the 
woman  was  saying. 

"It  makes  my  heart  burn  to  see  you  here/7' continued  the 
woman,  vehemently;  "it's  a  sin — a  wicked  shame;  but  I'll  take 
care  of  you.  There's  some  good  left  in  me  yet.  Just  get 
acquainted  with  that  little  wretch,  and  no  one  else;  stay  in 
your  cell ;  the  keeper  won't  let  them  crowd  in  upon  you.  The 
matron  will  be  here  by-and-bye.  She'll  be  a  mother  to  you  j 
she's  a  Christian — a  thorough,  cheerful,  hard-working  Christian. 
I  believe  in  these  things,  though  I  would  not  own  it  to  every 
one.  Kind,  because  she  can't  help  it  without  going  against 
her  own  nature.  I  like  that  woman — there  isnt  a  creature 
here  wicked  enough  not  to  likejier." 

"When  shall  I  see  her?"  questioned, Julia,  brightening  be 
neath  this  first  gleam  of  hope. 

"  To-morrow  morning — perhaps  before — I  don't  know  ex 
actly.  She7s  in  and  out  whenever  there  is  good  to  be  done. 
But  come,  go  into  my  cell — they  haven't  given  you  one  yet,  I 
suppose — the  whole  gang  of  them  are  coming  this  way  again." 

Julia  looked  up  and  saw  a  crowd  of  women  coming  up  from 
the  grated  door,  where  they  had  been  drawn  by  some  noise  in 
the  outer  passage.  Terrified  by  the  dread  of  meeting  that 
horrible  old  negress  again,  she  grasped  the  little  hand  that  still 
held  to  her  garments,  and  absolutely  fled  after  the  woman, 
who  entered  the  cell  where  she  had  first  seen  the  child. 

The  prisoners  were  amused  by  her  evident  terror,  and 
gathered  around  the  entrance  ;  but  as  Julia  sat  down  upon 
the  bed,  pale  and  panting  with  affright,  her  self-constituted 
guardian  started  forward  and  dashed  the  iron  door  in  their 
faces,  with  a  clang  that  sounded  from  one  hollow  corridor  to 
another,  like  the  sudden  ^clang  of  a  bell. 

"  There,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  for  a  moment  swept 
away  the  fierce  expression  from  her  face,  "  I'd  like  to  see  one 
of  them  bold  enough  to  come  within  arm's  length  of  that.  Mj 


FASHION    AND    FAMINE.  297 

home's  my  castle,  if  it"  is  in  a  prison.  I've  been  here  often 
enough  to  know  my  rights.  If  the  laws  won't  keep  you  free 
from  that  gang,  I  will !" 

It  was  wonderful  the  influence  that  gentle  girl  had  won  over 
the  depraved  being  who  protected  her  thus.  After  she  entered 
the  cell,  no  rude  or  profane  word  passed  the  woman's  lips. 
She  seemed  to  have  shut  out  half  that  was  wicked  in  her  own 
nature  when  she  dashed  the  iron  door  against  her  fellow- 
prisoners.  Her  large,  black  eyes  brightened  with  a  sort  of 
rude  pleasure  as  she  saw  her  child  creep  into  Julia's  lap,  and 
lay  his  head  on  her  bosom. 

"  How  naturally  you  take  to  one  another,"  she  said,  letting 
down  the  black  masses  of  her  hair,  and  beginning  to  disen 
tangle  the  braids  with  her  fingers,  as  if  the  pure  eyes  of  her 
guest  had  reproached  their  untidy  state.  "When  I  was  a 
little  girl,  we  had  plenty  of  wild  roses  in  a  swamp  near  the 
house.  It  is  strange,  I  have  not  thought  of  them  in  ten  years; 
but  when  I  saw  you  and  the  child  sitting  there  together,  it 
seemed  as  if  I  could  reach  out  my  hands  and  fill  them." 

Julia  did  not  answer;  her  eyes  were  bent  on  the  child, who 
had  ceased  to  cry,  and  lay  quietly  in  her  arms — so  quietly  that 
she  could  detect  a  drowsy  mist  stealing  over  his  eyes.  The 
woman  went  on  threading  out  her  long  hair  in  silence.  After 
awhile  Julia,  who  had  been  watching  the  soft,  brown  eyes  of 
the  child  as  the  white  lids  dropped  over  them  gradually  like  the 
closing  petals  of  a  flower,  looked  up  with  a  smile,  so  pure,  so 
bright,  that  the  woman  unconsciously  smiled  also. 

"He  is  sound  asleep,"  said  the  young  girl,  putting  back  the 
moist  curls  from  his  forehead.  "  See  what  a  smile,  I  have  been 
watching  it  deepen  on  his  face  since  his  eyes  began  to  close." 

The  woman  put  back  her  hair  with  both  hands,  and  turned 
her  eyes  with  a  sort  of  stern  mournfulness  upon  the  sleeping  boy. 

"  He  never  goes  to  sleep  on  my  bosom  like  that,"  she  said,  at 
last,  with  a  bitter  smile,  and  more  bitter  tone.  "  How  could 
he  ?  My  heart  beats  sometimes  loud  enough  to  scare  myself ; 
I  wonder  if  wild  flowers  really  do  blossom  over  Mount  Etna  ? 

•  13* 


298  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

If  they  do,  why  should  not  my  own  child  rest  over  my  own 
heart  ?" 

"My  grandfather  has  told  me  that  flowers  do  grow  around 
volcanoes,"  said  Julia,  with  a  soft  smile,  "but  it  is  because  the 
fire  never  reaches  them  ;  if  scorched  once  they  would  perish  I" 

"And  my  heart  scorches  everything  near  it.  Is  that  what 
you  mean  ?"  said  the  woman,  with  a  degree  of  mildness  that  was 
peculiarly  impressive  in  a  voice  usually  so  stern  and  loud. 

"  When  you  were  angry  to-day,  he  trembled;  when  you  wept 
he  kissed  you,"  answered  the  gentle  girl,  looking  mildly  into  the 
dark  face  of  her  companion,  whose  fierce  nature  yielded  both 
respect  and  attention  to  the  moral  courage  that  spoke  from  those 
young  lips. 

"  Well,  what  if  I  do  frighten  him?  We  love  that  best  which 
we  fear  most.  It  is  human  nature ;  at  any  rate  it  was  my  nature, 
and  should  be  my  child's,"  said  the  woman,  striving  to  cast  off 
the  influence  of  which  she  was  becoming  ashamed. 

"  And  did  you  ever  fear  any  one?" 

"  Did  I  ever  love  any  one  ?"  was  the  answer,  given  in  a  voice 
so  deep,  so  earnest,  that  it  seemed  to  ring  up  from  the  very  bot 
tom  of  a  heart  where  it  had  been  buried  for  years. 

"I  hope  so,  I  trust  so — do  you  not  love  your  child ?" 

The  woman  dashed  back  the  entire  weight  of  her  hair  with 
an  impetuous  sweep  of  one  hand  ;  then,  with  the  whole  Roman 
contour  of  her  face  exposed,  she  turned  a  keen  look  -  upon  the 
young  face  lifted  so  innocently  to  hers.  Long  and  searching 
was  that  look.  The  shadows  of  terrible  thoughts  swept  over 
that  face.  Some  words,  it  might  be  of  passion,  it  might  be  of 
prayer — for  bitterness,  grief  and  repentance,  all  were  blended 
in  that  look — trembled  unuttered  on  her  lips.  Then  she  sud 
denly  flung  up  her  arms  and  falling  across  the  bed,  cried  out  in 
bitter  anguish — "Oh,  my  God! — my  God!  can  I  never  again  be 
like  her?" 


FASHION      AND      FAlyte  299 


CHAPTER  XXIIT. 

THE    THREE    OLD    WOMEN. 

Why  have  we  three  gathered  here, 

With  aching  hearts  and  aching  brain  f 
Death  must  fill  another  bier, 

Before  we  three  shall  meet  again. 

"  How  do  you  do,  madam  ?  Anything  in  my  way  ?  Capital 
beets  these  —  the  most  delicious  spinach.  Celery,  bright  and 
crisp  enough  to  suit  an  alderman  —  sold  five  bunches  for  the  sup 
per-room  at  the  City  Hall,  not  half  an  hour  since.  Everything 
on  the  stand  fresh  as  spring  water,  sweet  as  a  rose.  Two 
bunches  of  the  celery,  yes  ma'am  :  anything  else  ?  not  a  small 
measure  of  the  potatoes  ?  Luscious  things,  always  come  out  of 
the  saucepan  bursting  their  jackets  ;  only  one  measure  ?  Very 
well  —  thank  you  !  Cranberries,  certainly  !" 

Thus  extolling  her  merchandise,  busy  as  a  bee,  and  radiant 
with  good  humor,  stood  our  old  huckster  woman,  by  her  vege 
table  stand  in  Fulton  Market,  on  the  morning  after  Julia  War 
ren  was  cast  into  prison.  No  customer  left  her  stand  without 
adding  something  to  the  weight  of  his  or  her  market-basket. 
There  was  something  so  hearty  and  cheerful  in  her  appearance. 
that  people  paused  spite  of  themselves,  to  examine  her  nicely  ar 
ranged  merchandise;  and  though  all  the  adjoining  stalls  were 
deserted,  Mrs.  Gray  was  sure  to  have  her  hands  full  every 
morning  of  the  week. 

On  this  particular  day  she  had  been  busy  as  a  mother 
bird,  serving  customers,  making  change,  and  arranging  her 
stall,  now  and  then  pausing  to  bandy  a  good-humored  jest  with 
her  neighbors,  or  toss  a  handful  of  vegetables  into  some  beg 
gar's  basket.  The  words  with  which  our  chapter  opens,  were 
addressed  to  a  quiet  old  lady  in  deep  mourning,  who  carried  a 
small  willow  basket  on  her  arm,  and  appeared  to  be  selecting  a 
few  dainty  trifles  from  various  stalls  as  she  passed  along. 


300  FASHION      AND      F  A  M  .'  N  E  . 

"  Cranberries  !  Oh,  yes,  the  finest  you  have  seen  this  year, 
plump  as  June  cherries  ;  see,  madam,  judge  for  yourself." 

The  good  woman  took  up  a  quantity  of  the  berries  as  she  spoke, 
and  began  pouring  them  from  one  plump  hand  to  the  other, 
smiling  blandly  now  at  the  fruit,  now  at  her  quiet  customer. 

"Yes,  they  are  very  fine,"  said  the  old  lady;  "do  up  a 
small  measure  neatly,  they  are  for  a  sick  person." 

Mrs.  Gray  looked  over  her  stand  for  some  paper,  but  her 
supply  was  exhausted.  Nothing  presented  itself  but  the  Morn 
ing  Express,  with  which  she  usually  occupied  any  little  time  that 
might  be  hers,  between'  the  coming  and  departure  of  her  custo 
mers.  This  morning  she  had  been  too  busy  even  for  a  glance  at 
its  columns  ;  but  as  her  neighbor  seemed  to  be  out  of  wrapping 
paper  also,  she  took  up  the  journal,  and  was  about  to  tear  off 
the  advertising  half,  when  something  in  its  columns  arrested  her 
eye.  She  held  the  paper  up  and  read  eagerly.  The  rich  color 
faded  from  her  cheeks,  and  you  might  have  detected  a  faint  mo 
tion  disturbing  the  repose  of  her  double  chin,  a-  sure  sign  of 
unusual  agitation  in  her. 

11  You  have  forgotten  the  cranberries  1"  said  the  customer,  at 
length,  looking  with  some  surprise  at  the  paper,  as  it  began  to 
rustle  violently  in  the  huckster  woman's  hands. 

Mrs.  Gray  did  not  seem  to  hear,  but  read  on  with  increased 
agitation.  At  length  she  sat  down  heavily  upon  her  stool,  her 
hands  that  still  grasped  the  paper,  dropped  into  her  lap,  and 
she  seemed  completely  bewildered.  » 

"  Are  you  ill  ?"  inquired  the  old  lady,  moving  softly  around 
the  stand.  "  Something  in  the  paper  must  have  distressed 
you." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  huckster  woman,  taking  up  the  journal, 
and  pointing  with  her  unsteady  finger  to  the  paragraph  she  had 
been  reading,  "  I  am  heart  sick  ;  see,  I  know  all  these  people  ; 
I  loved  some  of  them.  It  has  taken  away  my  breath.  Do  you 
believe  that  it  is  true  ?" 

The  lady  reached  forth  her  hand,  and  taking  the  paper,  read 
the  account  of  Leicester's  murder  and  Mr.  Warren's  arrest,  to 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  301 

the  end.  Mrs.  Gray  was  looking  anxiously  in  her  face,  and, 
though  it  was  white  and  still  as  the  coldest  marble,  it  seemed  to 
the  good  woman  as  if  it  contracted  about  the  mouth,  and  a  look 
of  subdued  pain  deepened  around  the  eyes. 

"  Do  you  believe  it  ?'-'  questioned  Mrs.  Gray,  forgetting  that 
the  person  she  addressed  was  an  entire  stranger. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  lady,  speaking  with  apparent  effort — 
"  yes,  he  is  dead  !" 

"What  !  murdered  by  that  old  man?  I  don't  believe  it 
It's  against  nature  !" 

"  He  died  a  violent  death/'  answered  the  lady,  shrinking  as  if 
with  pain. 

"Then  he  killed  himself,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  recovering 
something  of  her  natural  energy,  "  it  was  like  him.'7 

''Oh!  God  forbid!" 

The  lady  uttered  these  words  in  a  low,  gasping  tone,  as  if 
Mrs.  Gray's  speech  had  confirmed  some  unspoken  dread  in  her 
own  heart.  The  noble  old  huckster  woman  saw  that  she  was 
giving  pain,  and  did  not  press  the  subject. 

"  Then  some  other  person  must  be  guilty;  it  was  not  old  Mr. 
Warren  ;  I  haven't  seen  much  of  him,  true  enough,  but  he's  a 
good  man,  my  life  on  it  !  He's  sat  at  my  table — a  Thanksgiv 
ing  dinner,  ma'am  !  I  remember  the  blessing  he  asked,  so 
meek,  so  full  of  gratitude,  with  as  fine  a  turkey  as  ever  came 
from  a  barn-yard  tempting'  him  to  be  short,  and  he  with 
hunger  stamped  deep  into  every  line  of  his  face.  I  haven't 
heard  such  a  blessing  since  I  was  a  girl.  This  man  charged 
with  murder!  I  wouldn't  believe  it  though  every  minister  in 
New  York  swore  against  him." 

The  old  lady  opened  her  lips  to  speak  again,  but  Mrs.  Gray 
suddenly  laid  a  hand  upon  her  arm. 

""Hush  !  you  see  that  old  woman  coming  up  the  market,  it  is 
his  wife  ! — Mr.  Warren's  wife! — see  how  broken-heartedly  she 
looks  about  from  stall  to  stall  ;  maybe  it  is  this  one  she  wants. 
Yes  !  how  her  poor  eyes  brighten.  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend 
indeed  ;  she  knows  where  to  look,  you  see." 


302  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

X 

By  this  time  the  forlorn  old  woman,  who  came  wandering 
like  a  ghost  up  the  market,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  portly  fig 
ure  and  radiant  countenance,  that  always  made  the  huckster 
woman  an  object  of  attention.  Her  pale  face  did  indeed 
brighten  up,  and  she  forced  her  way  through  the  people,  put 
ting  them  aside  with  her  hands  in  reckless  haste. 

Mrs.  Gray  left  her  customer  by  the  stall,  and  went  down 
the  market  in  benevolent  haste,  the  snowy  strings  of  her  cap 
floating  out,  and  the  broad  expanse  of  her  apron  rippling  with 
the  rapidity  of  her  steps.  She  met  Mrs.  Warren  with  a  kindly, 
but  subdued  greeting,  and,  without  releasing  the  thin  hand  she 
had  grasped,  led  the  heart-stricken  woman  up  to  her  stall. 

"  There,  now,  sit  down  upon  my  stool,"  she  said,  giving 
another  gentle  shake  of  the  withered  hand,  before  she  relin 
quished  it.  "You  are  tired  and  out  of  breath  ;  there,  there, 
keep  quiet ;  cry  away,  if  you  like,  I'll  stand  before  you  1" 

The  good  woman  had  seen  tears  gathering  into  the  wild  eyes 
of  her  visitor  from  the  first — for  if  tears  are  locked  in  a  grateful, 
heart,  kindness  will  bring  them  forth — and  with  that  intuitive 
delicacy  which  made  all  her  acts  so  genial,  she  left  the  poor 
creature  to  weep  in  peace,  shielding  her  from  notice  by  the 
breast-work  of  her  own  ample  person. 

"Oh,  the  cranberries!  I  have  kept  you  waiting!"  she  said 
to  the  customer  who  stood  motionless  by  the  stall,  apparently 
unconscious  of  all  that  was  passing,  but  keenly  interested,  not. 
withstanding  this  seeming  apathy. 

The  lady  started  at  this  address,  and  without  answer  watched 
Mrs.  Gray  as  she  twisted  half  of  the  torn  newspaper  over  her 
hand,  and  afterward  filled  it  with  berries.  She  took  the  paper, 
mechanically  laid  down  a  piece  of  silver,  and  waited  for  the 
change.  All  this  was  done  in  a  cold,  strengthless  way,  like  one 
who  does  every  thing  well  from  habit,  and  who  omits  no  detail 
of  a  life  that  has  lost  all  interest.  She  stood  a  moment  after 
receiving  the  parcel,  and  then  drawing  close  to  Mrs.  Gray, 
whispered — 

"Ask  her  where  she  lives!" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  303 

Mrs.  Gray  looked  around,  and  saw  that  the  pale  face  was 
bowed  still,  and  that  tears  were  pouring  down  it  like  rain.  She 
leaned  forward  and  whispered — 

"  Do  you  live  in  the  old  place  yet?" 

"No,"  was  the  broken  answer,  "I  could  not  stay  there  alone, 
if  the  rent  were  paid.  As  it  is  they  would  not  let  me,  I  sup 
pose." 

"Where  is  your  home,  then?  Where  is  your  family?"  said 
the  lady,  in  her  gentle  way. 

"They  are  in  prison  ;  my  home  is  the  street !" 

"  But  where  do  you  sleep?" 

"  Nowhere,  I  have  not  wanted  to  sleep  since  they  took  him!" 
was  the  sad  reply.  "  I  walk  up  and  down  all  night ;  it  is  a 
little  chilly  sometimes,  but  a  great  deal  better  than  sitting  alone 
to  think." 

"She  will  go  home  with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  addressing  her 
customer,  and  drawing  one  hand  across  her  eyes,  for  their  soft 
•brown  was  becoming  misty.  "  Of  course  she  will — I  don't  know 
you,  ma'am,  but  somehow  it  seems  as  if  you  would  like  to  help 
this  poor,  unfortunate  woman.  She  needs  friends,  and  has  got 
one^  at  any  rate,  but  the  more  the  better!" 

"If — if  you  could  only  persuade  the  judge  to  let  me  stay  in 
prison  with  them,"  said  Mrs.  Warren,  lifting  her  face  to  the 
lady  with  an  air  of  pleading  humility.  "  I  don't  want  a  better 
home  than  that." 

"They !  Was  it  not  they  you  said ?"  questioned  the  huckster 
woman.  "Who  is  in  prison  besides  Mr.  Warren?  Not  Julia 
— not  my  little  flower-angel — you  do  not  mean  that  ?" 

"They  let  all  go  in  but  me!"  answered  Mrs.  Warren,  with  a 
look  of  pitiful  desolation. 

"  I  never  said  it  before  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gray,  untying  her 
apron,  rolling  it  up  and  twisting  the  strings  around  it  with  a 
degree  of  energy  quite  disproportioned  to  this  simple  operation 
— "  I  never  said  it  before,  but  I'm  ashamed  of  my  country — it's 
a  disgrace  to  humanity.  I  only  wish  Jacob  knew  it,  that's 
all  I" 


304  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

"  Hush  !"  said  the  lady,  with  her  cold,  low  voice.  "  There's 
one  stronger  than  the  laws  who  permits  these  things  for  his  own 
wise  purposes." 

Mrs.  Warren  looked  up.  A  wan  smile  quivered  over  her 
face.  "  That  is  so  like  him — he  said  these  very  words." 

"  He  is  right  !  you  must  not  feel  so  hopeless,  or  be  altogether 
miserable — have  faith  !  have  charity  !"  added  the  gentle 
speaker,  turning  from  the  mournful  eyes  of  Mrs.  Warren,  and 
addressing  the  huckster  woman.  "You  cannot  know  how 
many  other  persons  are  suffering  from  this  very  cause.  Let  us 
all  be  patient — let  us  all  trust  in  God." 

She  glided  away  as  she.  spoke,  and  was  lost  in  the  crowd, 
leaving  behind  the  hushed  passion  of  grief  and  a  feeling  of 
awe,  for  the  calm  dignity  of  her  own  sorrow  subdued  the 
resentment  which  Mrs.  Gray  had  felt,  like  the  rebuke  of  au 
angel. 

"  Did  you  know  her?"  she  questioned,  drawing  a  deep  breath, 
as  the  black  garments  disappeared.  "  One  would  think  she 
understood  the  whole  case." 

Mrs.  Warren  shook  her  head. 

"I  suppose  she  was  right,"  continued  the  huckster  woman — 
"  I  know  she  was  right,  but  we  can't  always  feel  the  pious 
faith  she  wants  us  to  have;  if  we  did  there  would  be  no  sorrow. 
Who  minds  wading  a  river  when  certain  just  how  deep  the 
water  is,  and  while  banks  covered  with  flowers  lie  in  full  sight 
on  the  other  side  ?  It  is  plunging  into  a  dark  stream,  with 
clouds  hiding  the  shore,  and  not  a  star  asleep  in  the  bottom, 
that  tries  the  faith.  But  after  all,  she  speaks  like  one  who 
knows  what  such  things  mean.  So  be  comforted  my  poor 
friend,  the  river  is  dark,  the  clouds  are  heavy,  but  somewhere 
we  shall  find  a  gleam  of  God's  mercy  folded  up  in  the  blackness. 
Isn't  there  a  hymn — I  think  there  is — that  says,  '  earth  has  no 
sorrow  that  heaven  cannot  cure  ?' " 

"  Oh  I  if  they  would  let  me  stay  with  him  !"  answered  the 
poor  old  woman,  with  her  wan  smile,  "  I  could  have  faith  then, 
that  is  heaven  to  me  !" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  305 

"  You  shall  see  him— yon  shall  stay  with  him  from  morning 
till  night,  if  you  would  rather  !  I'll  go  into  court  myself.  I'll 
haunt  the  alderman  like  an  office-seeker,  till  some  of  them  lete 
you  in.  I'll — yes,  I'll  go  after  Jacob,  he  can  do  anything;  you 
never  saw  Jacob — my  brother  Jacob,  he's  a  man  to  deal  with 
these  courts.  Strong  as  a  lion,  honest  as  a  house-dog  ;  been 
half  his  life  in  foreign  parts.  Knows  more  in  ten  minutes  thun 
his  sister  does  in  a  whole  year;  he'll  set  things  to  rights  in  nt) 
time.  Your  husband  is  innocent — innocent  as  I  am — we  must 
prove  it,  that's  all !" 

Mrs.  Warren  did  not  speak  the  thanks  that  beamed  in  every 
lineament  of  her  face ;  but  she  took  the  hand  which  Mrs.  Gray 
had  laid  upon  hers,  and  pressing  it  softly  between  her  thin 
palms,  raised  it  to  her  lips. 

"  Poh — poh,  they  will  see  you  !  Cheer  up  now,  and  let  us 
consider  how  to  begin.  If  Jacob  were  only  here  now,  or  even 
my  nephew,  Robert  Otis,  he  would  be  better  than  nobody!" 

"  Thank  you,  aunt  Gray — thank  you  a  thousand  times  for 
this  estimate  of  modest  merit,"  said  a  voice  at  her  elbow,  whose 
cheerfulness  was  certainly  somewhat  assumed. 

Mrs.  Gray  turned  with  a  degree  of  eagerness  that  threatened 
to  destroy  the  equilibrium  of  her  stately  person. 

"Robert — Robert  Otis,"  she  cried,  addressing  the  coble' 
looking  youth,  who  stood  with  his  hand  extended,  ready  for 
the  warm  greeting  that  was  sure  to  be  his.  "  I  was  just  wish 
ing  for  you — so  was  poor  Mrs.  Warren  ;  you  remember  Mrs 
Warren's  grand-daughter — she  is  in  trouble — great  trouble!" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  young  Otis,  remarking  the  painful  ex 
pression  that  came  and  went  on  that  withered  face.  "  I  have 
been  to  the  prison!" 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  Did  they  let  you  in  ?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Warren,  beginning  to  tremble.  "Oh!  tell  me  how  he  was — 
did  he  miss  me  very  much  ?  Was  he  anxious  about  his  poor 
wife  ?" 

"  I  was  too  early — they  did  not  let  me  in,"  replied  the  young 
man,  bending  a  pair  of  fine  eyes,  foil  of  noble  compassion,  on 


306  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

the  old  woman;  "but  I  learned  from  one  of  the  keepers  that 
your  husband  was  more  composed  than  persons  usually  are  the 
first  night  of  confinement." 

The  old  woman  sunk  back  to  her  seat,  with  an  air  of  meek 
disappointment. 

"  And  Julia,  my  grandchild — did  you  inquire  about  her  ?" 

Robert's  countenance  changed ;  there  was  something  un 
steady  in  his  voice,  as  he  replied  ;  'it  seemed  embarrassed  with 
some  tender  recollection. 

"I  saw  her!" 

"  You  saw  her!     How  did  she  look  ? — what  did  she  say  Ty 

"I  got  admission  to  speak  with  Mrs.  Foster,  the  matron,  a 
fine,  pleasant  woman,  you  will  be  glad  to  know :  but  it  was 
early  for  visitors,  and  I  only  saw  your  grand-daughter  through 
the  grating." 

"  Was  she  ill  ? — was  she  crying  ? — did  she  look  pale  ?" 

"  She  looked  pale,  certainly,  but  calm  and  quiet  as  an  angel 
in  heaven." 

"  Oh!  she  is  like  an  angel,  that  dear  grand-daughter!" 

"  She  was  leading  a  little  child  by  the  hand,  up  and  down 
the  lower  passage — a  beautiful  creature,  who  kept  his  quiet,  soft 
eyes  fixed  on  hers,  as  we  sometimes  see  a  house-dog  gaze  on 
its  owner.  I  had  but  one  glimpse,  and  came  away." 

"  Then  she  did  not  seem  unhappy  ?"  questioned  the  old 
woman. 

"  I  could  not  say  that.  Her  eyes  were  heavy,  as  if  she  had 
cried  a  good  deal  in  the  night,  but  she  was  calm  when  I  saw 
her." 

"  Would  they  let  me  look  at  her  as  you  did,  if  I  promised 
not  to  speak  a  word  ?" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  speak  with  her.  and 
your  husband  too.  If  the  keepers  refuse,  I  will  obtain  an 
order  from  the  sheriff." 

"Do  you  think  so,  really  ?     Can  I  see  them  to-day  ?" 

"  Be  at  rest ;  you  will  see  them  within  a  few  hours,  no 
doubt,*  replied  the  young  man.  "  But  your  grand-daug-htc?,  at 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  307 

least,  will,  I  trust,  be  at  liberty.  It  was  on  this  subject  that 
I  came  to  see  you,  aunt." 

"  And  right  glad  I  am  you  did  come,  nephew,"  replied  the 
huckster  woman.  "  I  wanted  to  help  the  poor  things  some 
how,  but  didn't  know  what  on  earth  to  begin  with.  I  know 
just  about  as  much  of  the  law  as  a  spring  gosling,  and  no  more. 
It  costs  heaps  of  money,  that  every  one  can  tell  you ;  but 
how  it  is  to  be  spent,  and  what  for,  is  the  question  I  want 
answered." 

"  Well,  aunt,  the  first  step,  I  fancy,  is  to  get  the  poor  wo 
man's  grandchild  out  of  that  horrid  place.  I  can  tell  you  it 
made  my  blood  run  cold  to  see  her  among  those  women !" 

"  Yes — yes.     But  how  is  it  to  be  done  ?" 

"  You  must  go  up  to  court  and  give  bonds  for  her  appear 
ance  ;  that  is,  you  agree  to  give  five  hundred  dollars  to  the 
treasury,  if  this  young  girl  fails  to  appear  when  her  grandfather 
is  put  on  trial.  If  she  appears,  you  are  free  from  all  obliga 
tion.  If  she  fails,  the  money  must  be  paid." 

"  Fails  !  I  thought  better  of  you,  nephew.  How  can  you 
mention  the  word  ?  Haven't  I  trusted  her  with  fruit  ?  Didn't 
I  go  security  for  half  the  flowers  in  Dunlap's  green-house  at 
one  time  within  this  very  month  ?  Robert,  Robert,  the  world 
is  spoiling  you.  How  could  you  speak  as  if  that  girl — I  love 
her  as  if  she  were  my  own  niece.  Robert — how  could  you  speak 
as  if  she  could  fail,  and  her  poor  grandmother  sitting  by  ?" 

Was  it  this  energetic  rebuke  that  brought  the  blood  so  richly 
into  the  young  man's  cheek,  or  was  it  the  little  word  "niece" 
that  fell  so  affectionately  from  the  old  huckster  woman's  lips? 
It  could  not  be  the  former,  for  a  bright  smile  kindled  up  the 
flush,  and  that,  a  rebuke,  however  kindly  intended,  was  not 
likely  to  excite. 

"  You  cannot  feel  more  confidence  in  her  than  I  do,  dear 
Aunt  Gray,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  thought  it  right  to  place  the 
responsibility  clearly  before  you  !" 

"That  was  right — that  was  like  a  man  of  business.  Never 
mind  what  I  said,  nephew,"  cried  the  great  hearted  woman, 


308  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

shaking  the  youth's  hand  till  the  motion  flushed  his  face  once 
more.  "Aunt  Gray  always  was  an  old  fool,  seeing  faults 
where  they  never  existed,  and  making  herself  ridiculous  every 
way,  but  never  mind  her — she'll  give  bonds  for  the  poor  child, 
of  course  ;  but  then  the  old  gentleman,  how  much  will  the  law 
ask  for  him  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  be  out  of  your  power  to  free  him, 
aunt." 

"  What,  they  ask  too  much,  ha  ?  You  think  Aunt  Gray 
must  not  run  the  risk ;  but  she  will,  though.  I  tell  you  that  old 
man  is  honest,  honest  as  steel.  They  might  trust  him  with  the 
prison  doors  open ;  he  will  do  what  is  right  without  fear  or 
favor.  I'll  give  bonds  for  him  up  to  the  last  shilling  of  my 
savings,  if  the  court  asks  it.  He's  innocent  as  a  creeping  babe, 
and  I,  for  one,  will  let  the  world,  yes,  the  whole  world,  know 
that  this  is  my  opinion." 

"  You  will  not  hear  me,  out.  Aunt  Gray,  I  did  not  advise 
you  against  giving  bonds,  far  from  it ;  but  Mr.  Warren  is 
charged  with  a  crime  for  which  no  bonds  can  be  received." 

"  I  did  not  know  that,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  sinking  her 
voice,  "  still  something  can-  be  done  ;  see  how  earnestly  she 
is  looking  at  us  1  My  heart  aches  for  her,  Robert." 

"  Heaven  knows  I  pity  her,"  said  the  young  man,  "  for  I  tell 
you  fairly,  aunt,  the  evidence  against  her  husband  is  terribly 
strong." 

"  But  you,  Robert— you  cannot  think  him  guilty  ?" 

"  No,  aunt,  I  solemnly  believe  Mr.  Leicester  killed  himself 
But  what  is  my  belief  without  evidence  ?" 

"  Then  you  solemnly  believe  him  innocent  ?" 

"  As  I  believe  myself  innocent,  good  aunt." 

"I  won't  ask  you  to  kiss  me,  Robert,  because  we  are  in  the 
open  market,  and  people  might  laugh — but  shake  hands  again 
Next  to  faith  in  Godx  I  love  to  see  trust  in  human  nature 
— faith  in  God's  creatures — it's  a  beautiful  thing  !  The  good 
naturally  have  confidence  in  the  good.  That  old  man  is  a 
Christian,  treat  him  reverently  in  his  prison,  nephew,  as  you 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  309 

would   have  bowed  before  one  of  the   apostles  ;  his  blessing 
\v<-;ild  do  you  good,  though  it  came  from  the  gallows."  * 

''"I   believe   all  this,  aunt  ;  something  of  mystery  there  is 
n bout  the  man,  but  it  would  be  impossible  to  think  him  guilty 
of  murder !      Still   there   must   have   been   some   connection 
••••en  him  and  Mr.  Leicester  yet  unexplained." 

"  1  know  nothing  of  this — nothing  but  what  the  papers  tell 
me  ;  but  one  thing  Is  certain,  Robert,  no  one  ever  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  Mr.  Leicester  without  suffering  for  it.  He 
was  kind  to  you  once,  but  somehow  it  seemed  to  wear  out  your 
young  life.  The  flesh  wasted  from  your  limbs ;  the  red  went 
out  from  your  cheeks.  It  made  me  heart-sick  to  see  the  boy  I 
loved  to  pet  like  a  child,  shooting  up  into  a  thoughtful  man  so 
unnaturally.  I  remember  once,  when  Leicester  boarded  at  our 
house,  Robert,  there  was  a  cabbage-rose  growing  in  one  corner 
of  the  garden.  I  haven't  much  time  for  flowers,  but  still  I 
could  always  find  a  minute  every  morning  before  coming  to 
market  for  those  rose-buds  when  the  blossom  season  came. 
That  summer  the  bush  was  heavy  with  leaves,  still  there  was 
but  a  single  bud,  a  noble  one,  though,  plump  as  a  strawberry, 
and  with  as  deep  a  red  breaking  through  the  green  leaves.  I 
loved  to  watch  the  bud  swell  day  by  day.  Every  morning  I 
went  out  while  the  dew  was  heavy  upon  it,  and  saw  the  leaves 
part  softly,  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  sunshine. 

"  One  morning,  just  as  this  bud  was  opening  itself  to  the  heart, 
I  found  Mr.  Leicester  bending  over  the  bush,  tearing  open  the 
poor  rose  with  his  fingers.  His  hands  were  bathed  in  the 
sweet  breath  that  came  pouring  out  all  at  once  upon  the  air. 
The  soft  leaves  curled  round  his  fingers,  trying  to  hide,  it 
seemed  to  me,  the  havoc  his  hands  had  made.  It  was  hard  to 
condemn  a  man  for  tearing  open  a  half-blown  rose,  nephew,*but 
somehow  this  thing  left  a  prejudice  in  my  heart  against  Mr. 
Leicester.  The  flower  did  not  live  till  another  morning.  I 
told  him  of  this,  and  he  laughed. 

"  *  Well,  what  then  ?  I  had  all  the  fragrance  at  a  breath,' 
he  said.  '  Never  let  your  roses  distil  their  essence  to  the  sun, 


310  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

drop  by  drop,  Mrs.  Gray,  when  you  can  tear  open  the  hearts 
and  drink  their  sweet  lives  in.  a  moment.' 

"  I  remember  his  answer,  word  for  word,  for  it  came  fresh 
to  my  mind  many  times,  when  I  saw  you,  my  dear  boy,  pining 
away  as  it  were,  under  his  kindness.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  he 
were  softly  parting  the  leaves  of  your  young  heart,  and  drain 
ing  its  life  away  !" 

"  And  you  really  thought  my  fate  like  that  of  your  rose, 
dear  aunt  ?" 

The  youth  uttered  these  words  with  a  pale  cheek  and  down 
cast  eyes.  The  good  woman's  words  had  impressed  him. 
strangely. 

"  It  kept  me  awake  many  a  long  night,  Robert." 

"  But  you  did  not  think  that  Uncle  Jacob  was  at  hand  ? 
Had  he  been  in  your  garden,  Leicester  would  not  have  found 
an  opportunity  to  kill  your  pet  rose — he  might  have  breathed 
upon  it,  nothing  more." 

The  huckster  woman  looked  earnestly  into  that  noble  young 
face  ;  and  Robert  met  her  glance  with  a  frank,  but  somewhat 
regretful  smile. 

"  And  Jacob,  my  brother,  stood  between  you  and  this  bad 
man,"  she  said  at  length,  with  a  degree  of  emotion  that  made 
the  folds  of  her  double  chin  quiver. 

"  He  made  me  wiser  and  better — he  was  my  salvation, 
Aunt  Gray." 

"  God  bless  my  brother — God  bless  Jacob  Strong  !"  cried  the 
huckster  woman,  softly  clasping  her  hands,  while  her  eyes  were 
flooded  with  tears — grateful  tears,  that  hung  upon  them  like 
dew  in  the  husks  of  a  ripe  hazelnut. 

"  Amen  !"  said  the  young  man,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Now,  aunt,  let  us  go  to  this  poor  woman — observe  how 
earnestly  she  is  watching  us." 

The  aunt  and  nephew  had  stepped  aside  as  their  conversation 
became  personal  ;  and  old  Mrs.  Warren  had  been  eagerly 
regarding  them  all  the  time.  They  were  the  only  friends  she  had 
on  earth.  To  her  broken  spirit,  they  seemed  to  hold  the  power 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

of  life  and  death  over  the  beings  she  loved  so  devotedly.  Rob 
ert  had  promised  that  she  should  see  her  husband  and  her 
grandchild  ;  the  heart-stricken  woman  asked  for  nothing  more. 
She  never,  for  an  instant,  questioned  his  power,  but  sat  with 
her  eyes  turned  reverently  upon  his  fine  person  and  noble  fea 
tures,  as  if  he  had  been  an  angel  empowered  to  unlock  the 
gates  of  heaven  for  her. 

Robert  and  his  aunt  approached  her  as  their  conference 
ended,  and  the  young  man  took  out  his  watch. 

"Is  it  time  ?  Would  they  let  me  in  now?"  questioned  the 
poor  woman,  half  rising  as  she  saw  the  movement. 

"  Are  you  strong  enough  ?"  he  answered,  observing  that  she 
trembled. 

"  Oh,  yes  1  I  am  strong — very  strong.     Let  us  go  I" 

With  her  thin,  eager  hands,  she  folded  the  shawl  over  her 
bosom  and  stood  up,  strong  in  her  womanly  affections,  in  her 
Christian  humility,  but  oh,  how  weak  every  way  else  ! 

Mrs.  Gray  folded  herself  in  an  ample  blanket  shawl,  and  ty 
ing  on  her  bonnet,  led  the  way  out  of  the  market,  forgetting  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  that  her  stall  was  unattended. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  FIRST  NIGHT  IN  PRISON. 

With  the  gloom  of  a  prison,  above  and  around, 
He  lay  down  at  night,  like  a  child  to  its  sleep ; — 

His  soul  was  at  rest  and  his  faith  was  profound, 
His  anchor  was  strong  and  God's  mercy  is  deep ! 

IF  there  is  any  portion  of  the  city  prison  more  cheerful  than 
another,  it  is  the  double  line  of  cells  looking  upon  Elm  street. 
Plenty  of  pure  light  pours  in  through  the  glazed  roof,  filling  the 
space  open  from  pavement  to  ceiling,  with  a  pleasant  atmos- 


312  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

phere.  The  walls  that  form  this  spacious  parade-ground  are 
pierced  with  cells  up  to  the  very  skylights.  Each  tier  of  cells  is 
marked  by  a  narrow  iron  gallery;  and  each  gallery  is  bridged 
with  that  opposite,  by  a  narrow  causeway,  upon  which  a  keeper 
usually  sits  smoking  his  cigar,  and  idly  reading  some  city 
journal. 

In  the  day  time  the  prisoners,  who  inhabit  these  various  cells, 
take  exercise  and  air  upon  the  galleries.  Even  those  commit 
ted  for  the  highest  crimes  often  enjoy  this  privilege,  for  the 
ponderous  strength  of  the  walls,  and  the  vigilance  of  the 
authorities,  render  a  degree  of  freedom  safe  here,  which  could 
not  be  dreamed  of  in  less  secure  buildings. 

I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  rule  requiring  that  persons 
charged  with  capital  crime  should  be  confined  in  the  upper  cells, 
but  usually  they  are  found  somewhere  in  the  third  gallery,  enjoy 
ing  some  degree  of  liberty  till  after  sentence;  but  closed  between 
that  time  and  death,  as  it  were,  in  a  living  tomb.  Thick  walls 
encompass  them  on  every  side.  Doors  of  ponderous  iron  bolted 
to  the  stone,  shut  them  in  from  the  galleries.  A  slit  in  the 
walls,  five  or  six  feet  deep,  lets  in  all  the  breath  and  light  of 
heaven  which  the  wretched  man  must  enjoy  till  he  is  violently 
plunged  into  a  closer  cell,  whence  breath  and  light  are  for  ever 
excluded.  A  narrow  bed,  and  perhaps  a  small,  rude  table,  are 
all  the  furniture  that  can  be  crowded  in  with  the  prisoner. 
But  books  are  seldom  if  ever  denied  him;  and  occasionally  these 
little  cells  take  a  domestic  air  that  renders  them  less  prison-like, 
and  less  gloomy  as  the  tastes  and  habits  of  the  inmates 
develope  themselves. 

Old  Mr.  Warren  was  placed  in  one  of  these  cells  the  day  of 
his  examination.  He  followed  the  officers  along  those  dizzy 
galleries,  submitting  to  the  curious  gaze  of  his  fellow-prisoners 
with  unshrinking  humility,  that  won  upon  the  kind  feelings  of 
his  keepers.  He  entered  the  cell,  looked  calmly  around,  and 
then  with  a  grateful  and  patient  smile,  thanked  the  officer  for 
giving  him  a  place  so  much  better  than  he. had  expected. 

The  officer  was  touched  by  the  grateful  and  meek  air  with 


FASHION       AND      FAMINE.  313 

which  he  spoke  these  simple  thanks,  and  replied  kindly,  "that 
<he  was  willing  to  render  any  comfort  consistent  with  the  prison 
rules."  After  this  he  looked  around  to  see  that  everything 
was  in  order,  and  went  out,  closing  the  heavy  door  with  a  kind 
regard  to  the  noise,  shooting  the  bolt  as  softly  as  so  much  iron 
could  be  moved. 

And  now  the  old  man  was  alone,  utterly  alone,  locked  and 
bolted  deep  into  that  solitude  which  must  be  worse  than  death 
to  the  guilty  soul.  At  first  his  brain  was  dizzy;  the  tragic 
events  that  cast  him  into  prison  had  transpired  too  rapidly  for 
realization.  They  rose  and  eddied  through  his  mind  like  the 
phantasmagoria  ef  a  dream.  He  could  not  think— he  could 
not  even  pray, 

He  sat  down  on  the  hard  pallet,  and  bowing  his  forehead  to 
iiis  hands,  made  an  effort  to  realize  his  exact  situation.  His 
«yes  were  bent  on  the  floor.  Once  or  twice  his  lips  moved  with 
a  faint  tremor,  for  in  all  the  confusion  of  his  ideas  he  could 
recollect  one  thing  vividly  enough.  His  wife  and  grandchild — 
the  two  beings  for  whom  he  had  toiled  and  suffered,  were  torn 
from  his  side.  His  poor  old  wife — her  cry,  as  she  strove  to 
follow  him,  still  rang  in  his  ear.  She  had  not  even  the  comforts 
of  a  prison. 

He  looked  around  the  cell — it  was  clean  and  dry — the  walls 
snowy  with  whitewash — the  stone  flags  swept  scrupulously, 
In  everything  but  size  it  was  more  comfortable  than  the  base 
ment  from  which  the  officers  had  taken  them.  True,  it  was  but 
a  hole  dug  into  the  ponderous  walls  of  a  prison,  but  if  she  had 
been  there  the  poor  old  man  would  have  been  content — nay, 
grateful,  for  as  yet  he  had  found  no  strength  to  realize  the  ter 
rible  danger  that  hung  over  him. 

Thus,  hour  after  hour  went  by,  and  he  sat  motionless,  ponder 
ing  over  all  the  incidents  of  his  examination  like  one  in  a  dream. 
None  of  them  seemed  real — but  the  voice  of  his  wife — the  wild, 
white  face  of  his  grandchild  as  she  was  borne  away  through  the 
crowd— these  things  were  palpable  enough.  He  tried  to  con 
jecture  where  his  wife  would  go;  what  place  of  refuge  she  would 

14 


314  FASHION      AND     FAMINE, 

find  ;  not  to  their  old  home,  the  floor  was  still  red  with  blood. 
She  was  a  timid  woman,  dependent  as  a  child.  Without  his 
calm  strength  to  sustain  her,  what  could  she  do  ?  Perish  in  the 
street,  perhaps  ;  He  down,  softly,  upon  some  door-stone,  and 
grieve  herself  to  death. 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  more  touchingly  holy  than  the  ten 
derness  which  an  old  man  feels  for  his  old  wife.  The  most 
ardent  love  of  youth  is  feeble  compared  to  the  solemn  devotion 
into  which  time  purifies  passion.  The  mere  habit  of  domestic 
intercourse  is  much,  independent  of  those  deeper  and  more  sub 
tle  feelings  which  give  us  our  first  glimpses  of  Paradise  through 
the  joys  of  home  affection.  It  was  not  the  prison — it  was  not 
the  charge  of  murder  that  held  that  old  man  spell-bound  and 
motionless  so  long.  His  desolation  was  of  the  heart ;  his  spirit 
fled  out  from  those  huge  walls,  and  followed  the  lone  woman 
who  had  been  thrust  rudely  from  his  side,  for  the  first  time  in 
more  than  thirty  years. 

It  was  not  with  this  keen  anguish  that  he  thought  of  Julia, 
for  in  her  character  there  was  freshness,  energy,  something  of 
moral  strength  beyond  her  years.  She  might  suffer  terribly, 
but  something  convinced  the  grandfather  that  the  sublime  purity 
of  her  nature  would  protect  itself.  She  was  not  a  feeble,  bro 
ken-spirited  woman  like  his  wife.  Yet  his  heart  yearned  as  he 
thought  of  this  young  creature  so  pure,  so  beautiful,  so  full  of 
sensitive  sympathies,  among  the  inmates  of  that  gloomy  dwell 
ing. 

It  was  of  these  two  beings  the  old  man  pondered,  not  of 
himself.  After  awhile,  this  keen  anxiety  goaded  him  into  mo 
tion.  He  stood  up  and  began  to  pace  back  and  forth  in  his 
cell,  A  narrow  strip  of  the  floor  lay  between  his  bed  and  the 
wall,  and  along  this  a  little  footpath  had  been  worn  in  the  stone 
by  former  prisoners. 

Who  had  thus  worn  the  prints  of  his  solitary  misery  into  the 
Lard  granite  ?  What  foot  had  trodden  there  the  last  sad  step 
of  destiny!  This  question  drew  the  old  man's  attention  for  a 
moment  from  those  he  had  lost.  He  became  curious  to  know 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  315 

something  of  his  predecessor — what  was  his  crime  ?  How  did 
he  look  ?  Had  he  a  wife  and  child  to  mourn  ?  Did  he  leave 
the  cell  for  liberty,  other  confinement,  or  death  ? 

'jL^he  word  death  brought  a  sense  of  his  own  condition  for  the 
first  time  before  him.  He  became  thoroughly  conscious  that  a 
terrible  charge  had  been  made  against  him,  and  that  appear 
ances  must  sustain  that  charge.  From  that  instant  he  stood  still, 
with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  floor,  pondering  the  subject  clearly 
in  his  mind.  At  length  a  faint  smile  parted  his  lips,  and  he 
began  to  pace  the  narrow  cell  again,  but  more  calmly  than  before. 

I  will  tell  you  why  that  old  man  smiled  there,  alone,  in  his 
prison  cell,  because  it  will  convince  you  that  nothing  but  guilt 
can  make  one  utterly  wretched.  He  had  thought  over  the  whole 
matter — the  charge  of  murder — the  impossibility  of  disproving 
a  single  point  of  the  evidence.  Nothing  could  be  more  apparent 
than  the  danger  in  which  he  stood — nothing  more  certain  than 
the  penalty  that  would  follow  conviction.  But  it  was  this  very 
truth  that  sent  the  smile  to  those  aged  lips.  What  was  death 
to  him  but  the  threshold  of  heaven?  Death,  he  had  never 
prayed  for  it,  for  his  Christianity  was  too  holy  and  humble  for 
selfish  importunity,  even  though  the  thing  asked  for  was  death. 
He  was  not  one  to  cast  himself  at  the  footstool  of  the  Almighty, 
and  point  out  to  His  all-seeing  wisdom  the  mercies  that  would 
please  him  best.  No — no,  the  religion  of  that  noble  old  man 
— for  true  religion  is  always  noble — was  of  that  humble,  trusting 
nature  that  says,  "  Nevertheless,  not  my  will,  but  thine,  be  done." 
He  was  only  thinking  when  he  smiled  so  gently,  how  much 
greater  sorrow  he  had  encountered  than  death  could  bring. 

This  gave  him  comfort  when  he  thought  of  his  wife  also.  She 
would  go  with  him,  he  was  certain  of  that  as  he  could  be  of  any 
thing  in  the  future.  He  remembered,  with  pleasure,  that  old 
people,  long  married,  and  very  much  attached,  were  almost 
certain  to  die  within  a  few  weeks  or  months  of  each  other. 
How  many  instances  of  this  came  within  his  own  memory.  It 
was  a  comforting  theme,  and  he  dwelt  upon  it  with  solemn 
satisfaction. 


316  FASHION      AND      FAMINE 

The  keeper,  when  he  came  to  bring  the  old  man's  dinner, 
gazed  upon  his  benign  and  tranquil  features  with  astonishment. 
Never  in  his  life  had  he  seen  a  prisoner  so  calm  on  the  first  day 
of  confinement.  It  was  impossible  for  philosophy  or  hardihood 
to  assume  an  expression  so  gentle,  and  full  of  dignity. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  the  old  man,  as  the  keeper  lingered  near  the 
door,  "  tell  me  who  occupied  this  cell  last  ?  It  is  a  strange 
thing,  but  with  so  much  to  distract  my  thoughts,  a  curiosity 
haunts  me  to  know  something  of  the  man  whose  bed  I  have 
taken." 

The  officer  hesitated.  It  was  an  ominous  question,  and  he 
shrunk  from  a  subject  well  calculated  to  depress  a  prisoner. 

"  I  have  made  out  a  portion  of  the  history,"  said  the  pris 
oner;  "  enough  to  know  that  he  was  a  sea-faring  man,  and  had 
talent." 

"  And  how  did  you  find  this  out  ?"  inquired  the  officer. 

"  There,  upon  the  wall,  is  a  rough  picture,  but  one  can  read 
a  great  deal  in  it !" 

The  old  man  pointed  to  the  wall,  where  a  few  unequal  lines, 
drawn  with  a  pencil,  gave  a  rude  idea  of  waves  in  motion.  In 
their  midst  was  a  ship,  with  her  masts  broken,  plunging  down 
ward,  with  her  bows  already  engulfed  in  the  water. 

"  Poor  fellow !  I  thought  it  had  been  whitewashed  over,"  said 
the  officer.  "  He  did  that  the  very  week  before — before  his 
execution." 

"  Then  he  was  executed  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  nothing  could  have  saved  him." 

"  Was  he  guilty,  then?" 

"  It  was  as  clear  a  case  of  piracy  as  I  ever  saw  tried  ;  the 
man  confessed  his  guilt." 

"  Guilty!  Death  must  be  terrible  in  that  case — very  terri 
ble  !"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head. 

"  He  was  a  reckless  fellow,  full  of  wild  glee  to  the  last,  but 
a  coward,  I  do  believe.  I  found  his  pillow  wet  almost  every 
morning.  The  last  month  he  kept  a  calendar  of  the  days  over 
his  bed  there,  pencilled  on  the  wall.  The  first  thing  every 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  317 

morning  he  would  strike  out  a  day  with  his  finger  ;  but  if  any 
one  seemed  to  pity  him,  he  frequently  broke  into  a  volley  of 
curses,  or  jeered  at  sympathy  that  he  did  not  want." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  an  innocent  man  executed  ?"  said  the 
prisoner,  greatly  disturbed  by  this  account ;  "  that  is,  a  man 
who  met  death  calmly,  neither  as  a  stoic,  a  bravo,  or  a 
coward  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  innocent  men  have  been  executed  again 
and  again,  all  over  the  world  ;  but  I  have  never  seen  one  die, 
knowing  him  to  be  such." 

The  officer  went  out  after  this,  leaving  the  old  man  alone 
once  more.  His  face  was  sad  now,  and  he  watched  the  closing 
door  wistfully. 

"  Why  should  I  seek  other  examples  ?"  he  said,  at  length. 
"  Was  not  he,  executed  innocently  ?  Is  it  not  enough  to  know 
how  my  Lord  and  Saviour  died  ?" 

It  was  a  singular  thing,  but,  from  the  first,  old  Mr.  Wilcox 
never  seemed  to  entertain  a  hope  of  escaping  from  the  prison 
by  any  means  but  a  violent  death.  It  was  to  this  that  all  his 
Christian  energies  were  bent  from  the  earliest  hour  of  confine 
ment. 

The  night  came  on,  but  its  approach  was  perceptible  only  by 
the  shadows  that  crept  across  the  loop-hole  which  served  as  a 
window.  In  the  darkness  that  soon  filled  the  cell  the 
old  man  lay  down  in  his  clothes  and  tried  to  sleep.  Now  it 
was  that  his  soul  yearned  toward  the  poor  old  wife  who  had 
been  so  long  sheltered  in  his  bosom ;  the  fair  grand-daughter  too — 
it  seemed  as  if  his  heart  would  break  as  their  condition  rose 
before  him  in  all  its  fearful  desolation. 

Deep  in  the  night  he. fell  asleep,  and  then  his  brain  was 
haunted  with  dreams,  bright,  heavenly  dreams,  such  as  irradiate 
the  face  of  an  infant  when  the  mother  believes  it  whispering  with 
angels.  But  this  sweet  sleep  was  of  brief  duration.  He  awoke 
in  the  darkness,  and,  unconscious  where  he  was,  reached  out 
his  arm.  It  struck  the  cold,  hard  wall,  and  the  vibration  went 
through  his  heart  like  a  knife.  She  was  not  by  his  side. 


318  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Where,  where  was  his  poor  wife  ?  He  asked  this  question 
aloud  ;  his  sobs  filled  the  cell  ;  the  miserable  pillow  under  his 
head  soaked  up  the  tears  as  they  rained  down  his  face.  A 
dread  of  death  could  not  have  wrung  drops  from  those  aching 
eyes  ;  but  tears  of  affection  reveal  the  strength  of  a  good  man. 
There  are  times  when  the  proudest  being  on  earth  might  be 
ashamed  not  to  weep. 

He  did  not  close  his  eyes  again  that  night,  but  wept  himself 
calm  with  broken  prayers.  Low,  humble  entreaties  for  strength, 
for  patience  and  for  charity,  rose  from  his  hard  bed.  Slowly 
the  cell  filled  with  light,  and  then  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  a 
book  lying  on  a  small  shelf,  fastened  beneath  the  window.  He 
arose,  eagerly,  and  took  it  down.  A  glow  spread  over  his  face. 
It  was  one  of  those  cheap  Bibles,  which  the  Tract  Society  scat 
ters  through  our  prisons.  As  he  opened  the  humble  book,  a 
sunbeam  shot  through  the  loop-hole,  and  broke  in  a  shower  of 
light  over  the  page.  Was  it  chance  that  sent  the  golden  sun 
beam  ?  Was  it  chance  that  opened  the  book  to  one  of  the  most 
hopeful  and  comforting  passages  of  Scripture  ? 

He  took  an  old  pair  of  steel  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  and 
sat  down  to  read.  Hours  wore  away,  still  he  bent  over  those 
holy  pages  as  if  they  had  never  met  his  eyes  before.  And  so 
it  really  seemed,  for  we  must  suffer  before  all  the  strength  and 
beauty  of  the  book  of  books  can  penetrate  the  heart.  A  noise 
at  the  door  made  him  look  up.  His  breath  came  fast.  It  re 
quired  something  heavier  than  that  iron  door,  to  lock  out  the 
sympathies  of  two  hearts  that  had  grown  old  in  affection.  His 
hands  began  to  tremble  j  he  took  off  the  spectacles,  and  hastily 
put  them  between  the  pages  of  his  Bible.  It  was  of  no  use  try 
ing  to  read  then. 

The  bolt  was  shot,  the  door  swung  open  with  a  clang,  and 
there  stood  a  group  of  persons  ready  to  enter. 

"  Husband  !  oh,  husband  1"  cried  old  Mrs.  Wilcox,  reaching 
both  hands  through  the  door  as  she  stooped  to  come  in. 

The  prisoner  took  her  hands  in  his,  and  kissed  them  as 
he  had  done*  years  ago,  when  those  poor  withered  fingers 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  319 

rosy  with  youth.  The  door  closed  softly  then,  for  old  Mrs. 
Gray  was  not  one  to  force  herself  upon  an  interview  so  mourn 
ful  and  so  sacred. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

LITTLE     GEORGIE. 

As  ivy  clingeth  round  a  ruin, 

Still  green  within  the  darkest  cleft, 
The  human  soul  in  its  undoing 

Has  still  some  lingering  virtue  left. 

JULIA  slept  little  during  the  night.  The  state  of  nervous 
terror  in  which  she  had  been  thrown,  the  shrinking  dread  which 
made  her  quail  and  tremble  at  the  approach  of  her  fellow 
prisoners — even  the  rude  kindness  of  the  strange  being  who 
took  a  sort  of  tiger-like  interest  in  her — frightened  sleep  from 
her  eyes. 

A  cell  had  been  arranged  for  her,  and  the  woman,  who  still 
shielded  her  from  the  other  prisoners,  much  as  a  wild  beast  might 
protect  her  young,  consented  that  the  infant  boy  should  be  her 
companion  through  the  night.  This  was  a  great  comfort  to  the 
poor  girl.  To  her  belief  there  was  protection  in  the  sleeping 
innocence  of  the  child,  who  lay  with  his  delicately  veined  tem 
ples  pressing  that  coarse  prison  pillow,  softly  as  if  it  had  been 
fragrant  with  rose-leaves. 

Julia  could  not  sleep,  but  it  was  pleasant  in  her  sad  wakeful- 
ness  to  feel  the  sweet  breath  of  this  child  floating  over  her  face, 
and  his  soft  arms  clinging  to  her  neck.  To  her  poetic  imagina 
tion  it  seemed  as  if  a  cherub  from  heaven  had  been  left  to  cheer 
her  in  the  darkness.  Sometimes  she  would  start  and  listen,  or 
cringe  breathlessly  down  to  her  pretty  companion,  for  strange, 
fierce  voices  occasionally  broke  from  some  of  the  cells  on  either 
gide — smothered  sounds  as  of  spirits  chained  in  torment — wail- 


320  FASHION      A  N  13      FAMINE, 

ing  and  wild  shouts  of  laughter  ;  for  with  some  of  those 
wretched  inmates,  memory  grew  sharp  in  the  midnight  of  a 
prison,  and  others  dreamed  as  they  had  lived — shouting  fiercely 
in  the  sleep  which  was  not  rest,  but  the  dregs  of  lingering 
inebriation. 

Of  the  mind  and  heart  of  this  young  girl,  we  have  said  but 
little.  The  few  simple  acts  of  her  life  have  been  allowed  to 
speak  for  her  extreme  youth ;  the  utter  isolation  of  her  life,  even 
more  than  her  youth,  would,  in  ordinary  characters,  have  kept 
her  still  ignorant  and  uninformed.  But  Julia  was  not  an  ordin 
ary  character;  there  was  depth,  earnestness,  and  that  extreme 
simplicity  in  her  nature  which  goes  to  make  up  the  beauty  and 
strength  of  womanhood.  Suffering  had  made  her  precocious,, 
nothing  more — it  sent  thought  hand  in  hand  with  feeling.  It 
threw  her  forward  in  life  some  thiee  or  four  years.  Gratitude, 
so  early  and  so  deeply  enkindled  in  her  ypung  heart,  fore 
shadowed  the  intensity  of  affection,  nay,  of  passion,  when  it 
should  once  be  aroused. 

In  this  country,  the  most  abject  poverty  need  not  preclude 
the  craving  mind  from  its  natural  aliment,  books.  Julia  had 
read  more  and  thought  more  than  half  the  girls  of  her  age  in 
the  very  highest  walks  of  life.  Her  first  love  of  poetry  was 
\  drawn  from  the  most  beautiful  of  all  sources,  the  Bible.  Her 
grandfather  was  a  good  reader,  and  possessed  no  small  degree 
of  natural  eloquence.  Gushes  of  poetry,  of  solemn,  sweet  feel 
ing  were  constantly  breaking  through  the  prayers  which  she 
had  listened  to  every  night  and  morning  of  her  life  ;  the  very 
sublimity  of  his  faith,  the  simple  trust  which  never  forsook  him 
in  the  goodness  of  his  Creator — the  cheerful  humility  of  his 
entire  character,  all  this  had  aroused  sympathetic  emotions  in 
his  grandchild's  heart.  It  is  the  good  alone  who  thoroughly 
feel  how  keen  and  sweet  intellectual  joys  may  become.  When 
we  water  the  blossoms  of  a  strong  mind  with  dew  from  the  foun 
tains  of  a  good  heart,  the  whole  being  is  harmonious,  and  the 
rarest  joys  of  existence  are  secured. 

But  though  the  Bible  contains  the  safest  and  most  beautiful 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  321 

groundwork  of  all  literature,  history,  biography,  ethics,  poetry, 
and  even  that  pure  fiction,  which  shadows  forth  truth  in  the  para 
bles,  the  mind  that  has  first  tasted  thought  there,  will  crave 
other  sources  of  knowledge.  A  few  old  volumes,  so  shabby 
that  the  pawnbrokers  refused  loans  upon  them,  and  the  second 
hand  book-stalls  rejected  them  at  any  price,  still  remained  in 
her  basement  home.  These  she  had  read  with  the  keen  relish 
of  a  mind  hungry  for  knowledge.  Then  old  Mrs.  Gray  had  a 
few  books  at  her  farm-house.  She  had  never  read  them  her 
self,  good  soul,  and  whenever  the  beauties  of  "  Paradise  Lost," 
were  mentioned,  had  only  a  vague  professional  idea  that  our 
first  parents  had  been  driven  forth  from  a  remarkably  fine  vege 
table  and  fruit  garden  just  before  the  harvest  season.  Still  she 
had  great  respect  for  the  man  who  could  mourn  so  great  a  loss 
in  verse,  and  delighted  in  lending  the  volumes  to  her  young 
friend  whenever  she  had  time  to  read. 

From  these  resources  and  the  patient  teachings  of  her  grand 
father,  Julia  had  managed  to  obtain  the  most  desirable  of  all 
educations.  She  had  learned  to  think  clearly  and  to  feel  rightly ; 
but  she  felt  keenly  also,  and  a  vivid  imagination  kindling  up 
these  acute  feelings  at  midnight  in  the  depth  of  a  prison,  made 
every  nerve  quiver  with  dread  that  was  more  than  superstitious. 
One  picture  haunted  her  very  sleep.  It  was  her  grandfather's 
white  and  agonized  face  stooping  over  that  dead  man.  Never 
had  the  beautiful,  stern  face  of  the  stranger  beamed  upon  her 
so  vividly  before.  She  saw  every  lineament  enameled  on  the 
midnight  blackness. 

She  longed  to  arouse  the  child  and  ask  it  if  the  face  were 
really  visible,  but  was  afraid  to  speak  or  move.  The  very  sound 
of  his  soft  breath  as  the  boy  slept  terrified  her.  But  while  this 
wild  dread  was  strongest  upon  her,  the  child  awoke  and  began 
to  feel  over  her  face  with  his  little  hands.  Softly,  and  with  the 
touch  of  falling  rose-leaves,  his  fingers  wandered  over  her  eyes, 
her  forehead,  and  her  mouth.  They  were  like  sunbeams  playing 
upon  ice,  those  warm,  rosy  fingers.  The  young  girl  ceased  to 
feel  frightened  or  alone.  She  began  to  weep.  She  pressed  his 

14* 


322  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Lands  to  her  lips,  and  drew  the  child  close  to  her  bosom, 
pering  softly  to  him,  and  pressing  her  lips  to  his  eyes  now  and 
then,  to  be  sure  they  were  open.  But  all  her  gente  wiles  were 
insufficient  to  keep  the  little  fellow  awake ;  he  began  to  breathe 
more  and  more  deeply,  and,  overcome  by  the  soft  mesmerism  of 
his  breath,  she  fell  asleep  also. 

It  would  have  been  a  lovely  sight  had  any  one  looked  upon 
those  two  calm,  beautiful  faces  pillowed  together  upon  that  pri 
son  bed.  Smiles  dimpled  round  the  rosy  lips,  upon  which  the 
breath  floated  like  mist  over  a  cluster  of  ripe  cherries.  The 
bright  ringlets  of  the  child  fell  over  the  tresses  that  shadowed 
the  fair  temple  close  to  his,  lighting  them  up  as  with  threads, 
and  gleams  of  gold.  It  was  a  picture  of  innocent  sleep  those 
green  walls  had  perhaps  never  sheltered  before  since  their  foun 
dation.  It  was  natural  that  Julia  should  smile  in  her  sleep,  and 
that  a  glow  like  the  first  beams  of  morning  when  they  penetrate 
a  rose,  should  light  up  her  face.  She  was  dreaming,  and  slum 
ber  cast  a  fairy  brightness  over  thoughts  that  had  perhaps 
vaguely  haunted  her  before  that  night.  Memories  mingled  with 
the  vision  and  the  scenes  which  wove  themselves  in  her  slum 
bering  thought  had  been  realities — the  first  joyous  realities  of 
her  young  life.  She  was  at  an  old  farm-house,  half  hid  in  the 
foliage  of  two  noble  maples,  all  golden  and  crimson  with  a  touch 
of  frost.  Her  grandparents  stood  upon  the  door-stone  with  old 
Mrs.  Gray,  talking  together,  and  smiling  upon  her  as  she  sat 
down  beneath  the  maples,  and  began  to  arrange  a  lapful  of 
flowers  that  somehow  had  filled  her  apron,  as  bright  things  will 
fall  upon  us  in  our  sleep.  These  blossoms,  breathed  a  perfume 
more  delicate  than  anything  she  had  ever  seen  or  imagined,  and, 
though  coarse  garden  flowers,  their  breath  was  intoxicating. 

Dreams  are  independent  of  detail,  and  the  sleeper  only  knew 
that  a  young  man  whose  face  was  familiar,  and  yet  strange, 
stood  by  her  side,  and  smiled  gently  upon  her  as  she  bent  over 
her  treasure.  Was  her  slumbering  imagination  more  vivid  than 
the  reality  had  been,  or  had  her  nerves  ever  answered  human 
look  with  the  delicious  thrill  that  pervaded  them  in  this  dream  ? 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  323 

Was  it  the  shadow  of  a  memory  haunting  her  sleep?  Oh,  yes,  she 
had  dreamed  before — dreamed  when  those  soft  eyes  had  nothing 
but  their  curling  lashes  to  veil  them,  and  when  the  thoughts 
that  were  now  floating  through  her  vision  left  a  glow  upon  that 
young  cheek.  It  was  true  the  angel  of  love  haunted  Julia  in 
her  prison. 

The  real  and  the  imaginary  still  blended  itself  in  her  vision 
but  indistinctly,  and  with  that  vague  cloudiness  that  makes  one 
sigh  when  the  dream  becomes  a  memory.  An  harassing  sense 
that  her  grandfather  was  in  trouble  seemed  to  blend  with  the 
misty  breath  of  the  flowers.  She  still  sat  beneath  the  tree,  and 
saw  an  old  man  in  the  distance,  struggling  with  a  throng  of 
people,  half  engulphed  in  a  storm-cloud  that  rolled  up  from  the 
horizon.  She  could  not  move,  for  the  blossoms  in  her  lap 
seemed  turning  to  lead,  which  she  had  no  power  to  fling  off. 
She  struggled,  and  cried  out  wildly,  " Robert — Robert  Otis!" 

The  blossoms  breathed  in  her  lap  again;  flashes  of  silver  broke 
up  the  distant  cloud,  and  stars  seemed  dropping,  one  by  one, 
from  its  writhing  folds.  Robert  Otis  was  now  in  the  distance, 
now  at  her  side;  she  could  not  turn  her  eyes  without  encoun 
tering  the  deep  smiling  fervor  of  his  glance.  His  name  trembled 
and  died  on  her  lips  in  broken  whispers,  then  all  faded  away. 
Balmy  quiet  settled  on  the  spirit  of  the  young  girl,  and  she  slept 
softly  as  the  flowers  slumber  when  their  cups  are  overflowing 
with  dew. 

From  this  sweet  rest  she  was  aroused  by  a  sharp  clang  of  iron, 
and  the  tread  of  feet  in  the  passage.  The  door  of  her  own  cell 
was  flung  open,  and  a  tin  cup  full  of  coffee,  with  coarse,  whole 
some  bread,  was  set  inside  for  her  breakfast.  The  dream  still 
left  its  balm  upon  her  heart,  which  all  that  prison  noise  had 
not  power  to  frighten  away.  She  smoothed  her  own  hair, 
arranged  her  dress,  and  then  arousing  the  child  from  i^s  sleep 
with  kisses,  bathed  and  dressed  him  also.  He  was  sitting  upon 
her  lap,  his  fresh  rosy  face  lifted  to  hers,  while  she  smoothed 
his  tresses,  and  twisted  them  in  ringlets  around  her  ^fingers, 
when  his  mother  entered  the  cell.  She  scarcely  glanced  at  the 


324  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

child,  but  sat  down,  and  supporting  her  forehead  with  one  hand,, 
remained  in  sombre  stillness  gazing  on  the  floor.  There  was 
nothing  reckless  or  coarse  in  her  manner.  Her  heavy  forehead 
was  clouded,  but  with  gloom  that  partook  more  of  melancholy 
than  of  anger. 

She  spoke  at  length,  but  without  changing  her  position  or 
lifting  her  eyes  from  the  floor. 

•'  Will  you  tell  me  the  name  ? — will  you  tell  me  who  the  man 
was  they  charge  your  grandfather  with  murdering  ?  Was  it — 
was  it— — -"  The  low  husky  tones  died  in  her  throat  ;  she 
made  another  effort,  and  added,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  was  it 
William  Leicester  V 

The  question  arrested  Julia  in  her  graceful  task  ;  her  hands 
dropped  as  if  smitten  down  from  those  golden  tresses,  and  she 
answered  in  a  faint  voice,  "  that  it  was  the  name." 

"  Then  he  is  dead  ;  are  you  sure — quite  sure  ?" 

"  They  all  said  so  ;  the  doctor,  all  that  saw  him  I" 

"  You  did  not  see  him  then  ?" 

"  Yes — yes  !"  answered  the  young  girl,  closing  her  eyes  with 
a  pang.  "  I  saw  him — I  saw  him  1" 

"  Why  did  your  grandfather  kill  him  ?  Had  Leicester  done 
him  any  wrong  ?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  wrong  he  had  ever  done,"  answered 
Julia  ;  "  but  I  am  certain  if  he  had  injured  him  ever  so  much, 
grandpa  would  not  have  harmed  a  hair  of  his  head." 

"  Who  did  kill  him  then  ?"  said  the  woman  sharply. 

"  I  think,"  said  Julia,  in  a  low,  firm  voice — "  I  think  that  he 
killed  himself  !" 

"  No.  It  could  not  be  that  I"  muttered  the  woman,  gloomily. 
"  No  doubt  the  old  man  did  what  others  had  better  cause  for 
doing  ;  tell  me  how  it  happened  !" 

Julia  saw  that  the  woman  was  growing  pale  around  the  lips 
as  she  spoke  ;  her  hand  also  looked  blue  and  cold  as  it  shaded 
her  face. 

"  Djpn't  be  afraid  of  me.  Go  on,  I  could  not  harm  a  mouse 
this  morning,"  she  said,  observing  that  Julia  hesitated,  and  sat 


FASHION   AND   FAMINE.         325 

gaziiig  earnestly  upon  her.  "I  have  been  in  prison  here  two 
weeks,  and  never  heard  of  his  death  till  now  1" 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  Leicester  ?"  questioned  Julia. 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  1" 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice  that  surprised 
Julia ;  more  of  bitterness  than  grief,  and  yet  something  of 
both. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  I  asked  you  ?"  said  the  woman,  with 
a  touch  of  her  usual  impetuosity. 

"  Yes/''  answered  Julia.  "  It  distresses  me  to  talk  of  it ;  but 
if  you  are  really  anxious  to  hear,  I  will  1" 

She  went  on  with  painful  hesitation,  and  told  the  woman  all 
those  details  that  are  so  well  known  to  the  reader.  The  wo 
man  listened  attentively,  sometimes  holding  her  breath  with 
intense  interest ;  again  breathing  quick  and  sharp,  as  if  some 
strong  feeling  were  curbed  into  silence  with  difficulty.  When 
Julia  ceased  speaking,  she  folded  both  hands  over  her  face, 
and  lowering  it  down  to  her  knees,  rocked  to  and  fro  without 
sob  or^tear;  but  the  very  stillness  was  eloquent. 

She  got  up  after  a  little  and  went  out.  Half  an  hour  after, 
Julia  took  the  child  to  his  mother's  cell.  The  strange  woman 
was  lying  with  her  face  to  the  wall,  motionless  as  the  granite 
upon  which  her  large  eyes  were  fixed.  She  did  not  turn  as 
they  approached,  but  waved  her  hand  impatiently  that  they 
should  leave  the  cell. 

Holding  the  child  by  his  hand,  Julia  lingered  in  the  passage. 
After  a  few  careless,  and  in  some  cases,  rude  manifestations  of 
interest,  the  prisoners  left  her  unmolested,  to  seek  what  conso 
lation  might  be  found  in  observation  and  exercise. 

Thus  the  day  crept  on.  The  confusion  which  her  youth  and 
terror  created  the  day  before,  had  settled  down  in  that  sullen 
apathy  which  is  the  most  depressing  feature  of  prison  life.  The 
women  moved  about  with  a  dull,  heavy  tread;  some  sat  motion 
less  against  the  wall,  gazing  into  the  air,  to  all  appearance  voi? 
of  sensation,  almost  of  life ;  some  slept  away  the  weary  tim<? 
but  depression  lay  heavily  upon  them  all. 


326  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Julia  lingered  Bear  the  grating,  for  the  gleams  of  sunshine 
that  shot  into  the  broad  hall  beyond,  whenever  the  outer  door 
was  opened  to  allow  access  and  egress  to  the  officers,  had  some 
thing  cheerful  in  it  that  filled  her  with  hope.  The  child,  too, 
felt  this  pleasant  influence,  and  his  prattle,  now  and  then  broken 
with  a  soft  laugh,  was  music  to  the  poor  girl. 

"  Come,  love — come,  let  us  go  away.  People  are  at  the 
door  !"  she  cried  all  at  once,  striving  to  lead  the  child  away. 

"  No — no.  It  is  brighter  here,  I  will  stay,"  answered  the 
little  fellow,  leaping  roguishly  on  one  side.  "It's  only  the  ma 
tron;  don't  you  hear  her  keys  jingle  ?  She  will  take  me  up  into 
her  pretty  room,  and  you  as  well.  Just  wait  till  I  ask  her." 

The  door  opened  and  a  black-eyed  little  woman,  full  of  ani 
mation  and  cheerful  energy,  stepped  into  the  passage.  She 
paused,  for  Julia  stood  in  her  way,  making  gentle  efforts  to  free 
her  dress  from  the  grasp  which  the  little  boy  had  fixed  upon  it. 
The  beauty  of  the  young  girl,  her  shrinking  manner,  and  the 
crimson  that  came  and  went  on  her  sweet  face,  all  interested 
the  matron  at  once.  She  smiled  a  motherly,  cheering  smile, 
and  said  at  once — 

"  Ah,  you  have  found  one  another  out.  George  is  a  safe  lit 
tle  playmate — ain't  you,  darling?  Come,  now,  tell  me  what  her 
lame  is,  that's  a  man." 

"She  hasn't  told  me  yet,"  lisped  the  child,  freeing  Julia  from 
his  grasp,  and  nestling  himself  against  the  matron. 

"My  name  is  Julia — Julia  Warren,  ma'am,"  said  the  young 
prisoner,  blushing  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  name  in  that  place. 

"I  thought  so;  I  was  sure  of  it  from  the  first;  there,  there, 
don't  be  frightened,  and  don't  cry.  Come  up  to  my  room 
— come,  George!  Tell  your  young  friend  that  somebody  is 
waiting  for  her  up  there — some  one  that  she  will  be  very  glad 
to  meet." 

"Tell  me — oh!  tell  me  who!"  cried  the  poor  girl,  breath 
lessly. 

"Your  grandmother,  so  she  calls  herself — and " 

Julia  waited  for  no  more,  but  darted  forward. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  327 

% 

"There — there.  You  will  never  get  on  alone!"  cried  the 
matron,  laughing,  while  she  turned  a  heavy  key  bright  with 
constant  use  in  its  lock,  and  opened  the  grated  door.  "  Come, 
now,  I  and  Georgie  will  lead  the  way.7' 

Julia  stood  in  the  outer  passage  while  the  heavy  door  was 
secured  again,  her  cheeks  all  in  a  glow  of  joy,  her  limbs  trem 
bling  with  impatience.  Little  George,  too,  seemed  to  partake 
of  her  eagerness ;  he  ran  up  and  down  in  the  bright  atmosphere 
like  a  bird  revelling  in  the  first  gleams  of  morning.  He  seized 
the  matron  by  her  dress  as  she  locked  the  door,  and  shaking  his 
soft  curls  gleefully,  attempted  to  draw  her  away.  His  sympathy 
was  so  graceful  and  cheering  that  it  made  both  Julia  and  the 
matron  smile,  and  though  they  mounted  the  stairs  rapidly,  he 
ran  up  and  down  a  dozen  steps  while  they  ascended  half  the 
number. 

Neither  Julia  nor  her  grandmother  spoke  when  they  met,  but 
there  was  joy  upon  their  faces,  and  the  most  touching  affection 
in  the  eyes  that  constantly  turned  upon  each  other. 

"  And  now,"  said  old  Mrs.  Gray,  coming  forward  with  her 
usual  bland  kindness,  "as  neither  of  you  seem  to  have  much  to 
say  just  now,  what  if  Robert  and  I  come  in  for  a  little  notice  ?" 

Julia  looked  up  as  the  kind  voice  reached  her,  and  there, 
half  hidden  by  the  portly  figure  of  his  aunt,  she  saw  Robert  Otis 
looking  upon  her  with  the  very  expression  that  had  haunted  her 
dream  that  night,  in  the  prison.  Their  eyes  met,  the  white  lids 
fell  over  hers  as  if  weighed  down  by  the  lashes,  through  which 
the  lustrous  eyes,  kindling  beneath,  gleamed  like  diamond  flashes. 
She  forgot  Mrs.  Gray,  everything  but  the  glory  of  her  dream, 
the  power  of  those  eloquent  eyes. 

"  And  so  you  will  not  speak  to  me — you  will  not  look  at  me!" 
said  the  huckster  woman,  a  little  surprised  by  this  reception,  but 
speaking  with  great  cordiality,  for  she  was  not  one  of  those  very 
troublesome  persons  who  fancy  affronts  in  everything. 

"Not  speak  to  you!"  cried  the  young  girl,  starting  from  her 
pleasant  reverie  to  the  scarcely  less  pleasant  reality.  "  Oh !  Mrs. 
Gray,  you  knew  better!" 


328  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  cried  the  good  woman,  with  a  laugh  that 
made  her  neckerchief  tremble,  and  she  shook  the  little  hand  that 
Julia  gave  with  grateful  warmth,  over  and  over  again.  "  Come, 
now,  get  your  bonnet  and  things." 

Julia  looked  at  the  matron. 

"But  I  am  a  prisoner!" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  I've  bought  you  out;  given  bonds,  or 
something.  Robert  can  tell  you  all  about  it ;  but  the  long  and 
short  is,  you're  free  as  a  blackbird.  Can  go  home  with  me — • 
grandma  too,  I'm  old — I'm  getting  lonesome — want  her  to  keep 
house  when  I'm  in  market,  and  you  to  take  care  of  her." 

"  But  grandfather — where  is  he  ?     Oh!  where  is  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Gray's  countenance  fell,  and  she  seemed  ready  to  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Don't  ask  me;  Robert  must  tell  you  about  that.  I  did  my 
best ;  offered  to  mortgage  the  whole  farm  to  those  crusty  old 
judges,  but  it  was  of  no  use." 

"We  couldn't  leave  him  here  alone!"  said  Julia,  with  one  of 
her  faint,  beautiful  smiles. 

Robert  Otis  came  forward  now. 

"  It  would  be  useless  for  either  of  you  to  remain  here  on  his 
account,  even  if  the  laws  would  permit  it.  You  will  be  allowed 
to  see  him  quite  as  frequently  if  you  live  with  my  aunt,  and 
with  freedom  you  may  find  means  of  aiding  him." 

Julia  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  ;  her  glance,  instead  of  em 
barrassing,  seemed  to  animate  the  young  man. 

"  It  admits  of  no  choice,"  he  added,  with  a  smile.  "  Your 
grandfather  himself  desires  that  you  should  accept  my  aunt's 
offer,  and  she — bless  her — it  would  break  her  heart  to  be 
refused." 

"  Grandfather  desires  it — Mr.  Otis  desires  it.  Shall  we  not 
go,  grandma  ?" 

"  Certainly,  child  ;  he  wishes  it,  that  is  enough  ;  but  I  shall 
see  him  every  day,  you  remember,  ma'am.  Every  day  when 
you  come  over,  I  come  also.  It  was  a  promise  !" 

"Do  exactly   as  you  please — that's  my  idea  of  helping 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  329 

folks/7  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  to  whom  the  latter  part  of  this 
address  had  been  made.  "The  kindness  that  forces  people  to 
be  happy,  according  to  a  rule  laid  down  by  the  self-conceit  of 
a  person  who  happens  to  have  the  means  you  want,  is  the 
worst  kind  of  slavery,  because  it  is  a  slavery  for  which  you  are 
expected  to  be  very  grateful.  I  have  heard  brother  Jacob  say 
this  a  hundred  times,  and  so  have  you,  Robert." 

"  Uncle  Jacob  never  said  anything  that  was  not  wise  and 
generous  in  his  life!"  answered  the  young  man,  with  kindling 
eyes. 

"  If  ever  an  angel  lived  on  earth,  he  is  one!"  rejoined  Mrs. 
Gray,  looking  around  upon  her  audience,  as  if  to  impress  them 
fully  with  this  estimate  of  her  brother's  character. 

A  sparkling  smile  broke  over  Robert's  face. 

"  Well,  aunt,  I  hope  you  never  fancied  the  angels  dressing 
exactly  after  Uncle  Jacob's  fashion!"  he  said,  casting  a  look 
full  of  comic  meaning  on  the  old  lady. 

"  Oh,  Robert,  you  are  always  laughing  at  me!'7  replied  the 
good-humored  lady,  turning  from  the  young  man  to  her  other 
auditors.  "  It  was  always  so ;  the  most  mischievous  little 
rogue  you  ever  saw.  I  thought  he  had  grown  out  of  it  for  a 
while,  but  nature  is  nature  the  world  through." 

Robert  blushed.  His  aunt's  encomiums  did  not  quite  please 
him,  for  the  character  of  a  mischievous  boy  was  not  that  which 
he  was  desirous  of  maintaining  just  then.  In  the  dark  eyes 
turned  so  earnestly  upon  his  face,  he  read  a  depth  and  earnest 
ness  of  feeling  that  made  his  attempt  at  cheerfulness  seem 
almost  sacrilegious.  Julia  saw  this,  and  smiled  softly.  She 
had  not  intended  to  rebuke  him  by  the  seriousness  of  her  face, 
and  her  look  expressed  this  more  eloquently  than  words  could 
have  done. 

When  the  heart  is  sorrowful,  there  are  times  when  cheerful 
ness  in  those  around  us  has  a  healthful  influence.  The  joyous 
laugh,  the  pleasant  word  may  fall  harshly  upon  a  riven  heart 
at  first,  but  imperceptibly  they  become  familiar  again,  and  at 
length  sweep  aside  the  gloom  with  which  the  mourner  loves  to 


330  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

envelope  himself.  Give  the  soul  plenty  of  sunshine,  and  it  grows 
vigorous  to  withstand  the  storm.  When  grief  is  pampered  and 
cultivated  as  a  duty,  it  often  degenerates  into  intense  selfishness. 
Sorrow  has  its  vanity  as  well  as  joy. 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

MRS.     GRAY    AND    THE     PRISON    WOMAN. 

Come  with  thy  warm  and  genial  heart — 

Bring  sunshine  to  the  prison  cell ; 
True  goodness,  without  book  or  chart, 

Sees  the  right  path,  and  treads  it  well. 

IT  was  decided  that  Julia  and  her  grandmother  should 
accompany  Mrs.  Gray  at  once  to  her  old  homestead  on  Long 
Island.  They  were  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Julia 
remembered,  with  a  pang,  that  she  must  surrender  the  little 
boy  to  his  mother  again.  Her  cheek  blanched  at  the  thought. 
The  child  had  kept  by  her  side  since  she  first  entered  the  room, 
and  now  grasped  a  fold  of  her  dress  in  his  hand  almost  fiercely. 
His  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  his  dimpled  chin  was  beginning 
to  quiver,  as  if  he  were  ready  to  burst  into  tears  at  some 
wrong  premeditated  against  him. 

Tears  swelled  into  Julia's  eyes  as  she  bent  them  upon  the- 
child. 

"What  shall  I  do?  He  seems  to  know  that  we  are  about 
to  leave  him,"  she  murmured. 

"  Come  with  me,  I  will  take  you  to  mamma/'  said  the  matron, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  head.  "There,  Georgie,  be  a  little 
gentleman,  dear!" 

The  tears  that  had  been  swelling  in  the  little  fellow's  bosom 
broke  forth  now.  He  began  to  sob  violently,  and  shaking  off 
the  matron's  hand,  clung  to  his  new  friend. 

"  Take  me  up,  take  me  up — I  will  go  too,"  he  sobbed,  lifting 
his  little  hands  and  his  tearful  face  to  the  young  girl. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  331 

Julia  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  putting  the  curls  back  from 
his  forehead,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  it. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  she  said,  turning  her  eyes  unconsciously 
upon  Robert  Otis. 

Robert  smiled  and  shook  his  head ;  but  old  Mrs.  Gray, 
whose  heart  was  forever  creaming  over  with  the  milk  of  human 
kindness,  came  forward  at  once. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  Why,  take  him  along  ;  the  homestead 
is  large  enough  for  us  all.  It  will  seem  like  old  times  to  have 
a  little  shaver  like  that  running  around,  now  that  Robert  is 
away." 

"  But  he  has  a  mother  in  the  prison,"  said  the  matron — "a 
strange,  fierce  woman,  who,  somehow  or  other,  has  persuaded 
the  authorities  to  leave  him  with  her  for  the  few  days  she  will 
be  here." 

"  His  mother  a  prisoner,  poor  thing.  Let  me  go  to  her,  I 
dare  say  she  will  be  glad  enough  to  get  a  nice  home  for  the  boy," 
answered  the  good  woman,  hopefully. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  was  the  matron's  reply;  "she  seems  to 
have  a  sort  of  fierce  love  for  the  child,  and  is  very  jealous  that 
fhe  may  become  attached  to  some  one  beside  herself.  It  was 
from  this  feeling  she  forced  him  from  the  poor  woman  who  took 
him  to  nurse  when  only  a  few  weeks  old,  He  was  very  fond 
of  her,  and  always  fancies  that  any  new  face  must  be  hers. 
I  wonder  she  submits  to  his  fancy  for  this  young  girl  1" 

"  But  it's  wrong,  it's  abominable  to  keep  the  little  fellow  here. 
I'll  tell  her  so,  I'll  expostulate,"  persisted  Mrs.  Gray;  "just  let 
me  talk  with  this  woman — just  let  me  into  her  cell,  madam." 

The  matron  shook  her  head,  and  gave  the  bright  key  in  her 
hand  a  little,  quiet  twirl,  which  said  plainly  as  words,  that  it 
was  of  no  use;  but  she  led  the  way  down  stairs,  and  conducted 
Mrs.  Gray  to  the  prisoner's  cel^^ 

The  woman  was  still  lying  witMer  forehead  against  the  wall, 
quite  motionless,  but  she  turned  her  face  as  the  matron  spoke, 
and  Mrs.  Gray  saw  that  it  was  drenched  with  tears. 

The  huckster  woman  sat  down  upon  the  bed,  and  took  one 


332  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

of  the  prisoner's  hands  in  hers.  It  was  a  large,  but  beautifully 
formed  hand,  full  of  natural  vigor,  but  now  it  lay  nerveless  and 
inert  in  that  kind  clasp,  and,  for  a  moment,  Mrs.  Gray  smoothed 
down  the  languid  fingers  with  her  own  plump  palm. 

The  woman,  at  first,  shrunk  from  this  mute  kindness,  and, 
half  rising,  fixed  her  great  black  eyes  upon  her  visitor  in  sudden 
and  almost  fierce  astonishment,  but  she  shrunk  back  from  the 
rosy  kindness  of  that  face  with  a  deep  breath,  and  lay  motion 
less  again. 

Mrs.  Gray  spoke  then  in  her  own  frank,  cheerful  way,  and 
asked  permission  to  take  the  little  boy  home  with  her.  She 
described  her  comfortable  old  house,  the  garden,  the  poultry, 
the  birds  that  built  their  nests  in  the  twin  maples,  the  quantity 
of  winter  apples  laid  up  in  the  cellar.  All  the  elements  of  hap 
piness  to  a  bright  and  healthy  child  she  thus  lay  temptingly 
before  the  mother.  Again  the  woman  started  up. 

"  Are  you  a  moral  reformer?"  she  said,  with  a  sharp  sneer. 

"  No  I"  answered  Mrs.  Gray,  with  a  puzzled  look.  "  At 
any  rate  not  as  I  know  of,  but  in  these  times  you  have  so  many 
new  fangled  names  for  simple  things,  that  I  may  be  one  without 
having  the  least  idea  of  it !" 

"  A  philanthrophist  then — are  you  that  ?"  » 

"  Haven't  the  least  notion  what  the  thing  is,"  cried  Mrs. 
Gray,  with  perfect  simplicity. 

"  Are  you  one  of  those  women  who  hang  around  prisons  to 
pick  up  other  people's  children,  while  their  own  are  running 
wild  at  home — who  give  a  garret-bed  and  second-hand  crusts  to 
these  poor  creatures,  and  then  scream  out  through  society  and 
newspaper  reports  for  the  world  to  come  and  see  what  angels 
you  are  ?  Who  pick  up  a  poor  wretch  from  the  cells  here,  and 
impose  her  off  upon  some  kind  fool  from  the  country,  whom  she 
robs,  of  course;  and  before^te  has  been  tried  three  weeks, 
blaze  out  her  reformation  tofflfe  whole  world,  forgetting  to  tell 
the  robbery  when  it  comes  ? 

"  Do  you  want  my  boy  for  a  pattern  ?  Do  you  intend  to  have 
it  shouted  in  some  paper  or  anniversary  report,  how  great  a 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  333 

thing  your  society  has  done  in  snatching  this  poor  little  imp 
from  his  mother's  bosom  as  a  brand  from  the  burning  fire  ?  In 
short,  do  you  want  to  hold  him  up  as  a  lure  for  the  innocent 
country  people  who  pour  money  into  your  laps,  honestly  believ 
ing  that  it  all  goes  for  the  cause,  and  never  once  asking  how 
yourselves  are  supported  all  the  while  ?  Are  you  one  of  these, 
I  say  ?" 

"Goodness  gracious  knows  I  ain't  anything  of  the  kind,1' 
answered  Mrs.  Gray.  "  Never  set  up  for  an  angel  in  my  life, 
never  expect  to  on  this  side  of  the  grave." 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  lady  president  ?" 

"  In  our  free  and  glorious  country/7  answered  Mrs.  Gray, 
now  more  at  home,  for  she  had  listened  to  a  good  many  Fourth 
of  July  orations  in  her  time  ;  "in  this  country  it's  against  the 
law  for  old  women  to  be  Presidents.  At  any  rate,  I  never 
heard  of  one  in  a  cap  and  white  apron  I" 

A  gleam  of  rich  humor  shot  over  the  prisoner's  face. 

"Then  you  are  not  a  member  of  any  society?"  she  said,  won 
into  more  kindly  temper  by  the  frank  cordiality  of  her  visitor. 

Mrs.  Gray's  face  became  very  serious,  and  her  brown  eyes 
shone  with  gentle  lustre. 

"  It's  my  privilege  to  be  a  humble  member  of  the  Baptist 
church  ;  but  unless  you  have  a  conscience  against  immersion,  I 
don't  know  as  that  ought  to  stand  in  the  poor  boy's  way,  espe 
cially  as  he  may  have  been  baptized  already." 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  charitable  woman  by  profession  ?  Yon 
are  willing  to  take  my  boy  for  his  own  good  ?  What  will  you 
do  with  him  if  I  say  yes  ?" 

"  Why,  pretty  much  as  I  did  with  nephew  Robert  •  let  him 
run  in  the  garden,  hunt  eggs,  drive  the  geese  home  when  he 
knows  the  way  himself ;  and  do  all  sorts  of  chores  that  will 
keep  him  out  of  mischief,  and  in  health  ;  as  he  grows  old  enough 
I  will  send  him  to  school,  and  tefth  him  the  Lord's  prayer  my 
self.  In  short,  I  shall  do  pretty  much  like  other  people ;  scold 
him  when  he  is  bad,  kiss  him  when  he  is  good  ;  in  the  end  make 
him  just  such  a  handsome,  honest,  noble  chap  as  my  Robert  is 


334  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

— that  nephew  of  mine.  Everybody  admits  that  he  is  the  salt 
of  the  earth,  and  I  brought  him  up  myself,  every  inch  of  him  1" 

"  And  among  the  rest  yon  will  teach  him  to  forget  and  des 
pise  his  mother,"  said  the  woman,  bending  her  wet  eyes  upon 
Mrs.  Gray,  with  a  look  of  passionate  scrutiny. 

"I  never  wilfully  went  against  the  Bible  in  my  life.  When 
the  child  learns  to  read,  he  will  find  it  written  there,  '  Honor 
thy  father  and  thy  mother,  that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the 
land  which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee.'" 

"  Can  I  see  him  when  I  please  ?" 

"  Certainly— why  not  ?" 

"  But  I  am  a  prisoner  ;  I  have  been  here  more  than  once." 

"You  are  his  mother,"  was  the  soft  answer. 

"  You  will  be  ashamed  to  have  me  coming  to  your  house." 

"  Why  so  ?  I  have  been  a  quiet  neighbor — an  upright  wo 
man,  so  far  as  my  light  went,  all  my  life.  Why  should  I  fear 
to  have  any  one  come  to  my  own  house  ?" 

"But  he  will  be  ashamed  of  me  !  With  a  comfortable  home, 
with  friends,  schooling — my  own  child,  will  learn  to  scorn  and 
hate  his  mother  1" 

"  No,"  anwered  Mrs.  Gray,  and  her  fine  old  face  glowed  with 
the  pious  prophecy — "  no,  because  his*  mother  will  herself 
be  a  good  woman,  by-aud-bye,  it  is  sure.  You  are  not  dead  at 
the  root  yet ;  want  care,  pruning,  sunshine  ;  will  live  to  be  a 
useful  member  of  society  before  long — I  have  faith  to  believe  it. 
God  help  you — God  bless  you.  Now  speak  out  at  once,  can  I 
take  the  little  fellow?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  woman,  casting  herself  across  the  bed, 
and  pressing  both  hands  hard  against  her  eyes — "yes,  take  him 
— take  him  !" 

And  so  Mrs.  Gray  returned  to  her  old  homestead  with  three 
new  inmates  that  night.  It  was  a  bleak,  sharp  day,  and  the 
maple  leaves  were  whirling  i^Tshowers  about  the  old  house  as 
they  drove  up.  A  cris*p  frost  had  swept  every  flower  from  the 
beds,  and  all  the  soft  tints  of  green  from  the  door-yard  and  gar 
den.  Still  there  was  nothing  gloomy  in  the  scene  ;  the  sitting- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  335 

room  windows  were  glowing  with  petted  chrysanthemums, 
golden,  snow-tinted  and  rosy,  all  bathed  and  nodding  in  a  flood 
of  light  that  poured  up  from  the  bright  hickory-wood  fire. 

Robert  had  ridden  on  before  the  rest,  bearing  household  di 
rections  from  Mrs.  Gray  to  the  Irish  servant  girl.  A  nice 
supper  stood  ready  upon  the  table,  and  a  copper  tea-kettle  was 
before  the  fire,  pouring  out  a  thin  cloud  of  steam  from  its 
spout,  and  starting  off  now  and  then  in  a  quick,  cheerful 
bubble,  as  if  quite  impatient  to  be  called  into  active  service. 
The  fine  bird's-eye  diaper  that  flowed  from  the  table — the  little 
old-fashioned  china  cups,  and  the  tall,  plated  candlesticks,  from 
which  the  light  fell  in  long,  rich  gleams,  composed  one  of  the 
most  cheering  pictures  in  the  world. 

Then  dear  old  Mrs.  Gray  was  so  happy  herself,  so  full  of  quiet, 
soothing  kindness;  the  very  tones  of  her  voice  were  hopeful. 
When  she  laughed,  all  the  rest  were  sure  to  smile,  very  faintly 
it  is  true ;  but  still  these  smiles  were  little  gleams  won  from  the 
most  agonizing  grief.  Altogether  it  was  one  of  those  evenings 
when  we  say  to  one  another,  "well,  I  cannot  realize  all  this 
sorrow  when  the  soul  becomes  dreamy,  and  softly  casts  aside 
the  -shafts  of  pain  that  goad  it  so  fiercely  at  other  times." 

Little  George  fell  asleep  after  tea,  and  Julia  sat  upon  the 
crimson  moreen  couch  under  the  windows,  pillowing  his  head  on 
her  lap.  The  chrysanthemums  rose  in  a  flowery  screen  behind 
her,  their  soft  shadows  pencilling  themselves  on  her  cheek,  and 
lying  in  the  deeper  blackness  of  her  hair.  Robert  Otis  spoke 
but  little  that  night,  and  his  dear,  simple  old  aunt  felt  quite 
satisfied  that  the  gaze  which  he  turned  so  steadily  toward  the 
windows  was  dwelling  in  admiration  on  her  flowers. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  his  glance  brought  roses  to  that  pale  cheek, 
and  kindled  up  the  soft  eyes  that  lay  like  violets  shrouded 
beneath  their  thick  lashes,  with  a  brilliancy  that  had  never 
burned  there  before.  Julia's  heart  was  far  too  sorrowful  for 
thoughts  of  love,  but  there  was  something  thrilling  in  her  bosom 
deeper  than  grief,  and  more  exquisite  than  any  joy  she  had  yet 
known. 


336  FASHION      AND      FAMINE- 

But  Robert  Otis  was  more  self-possessed.  His  thoughts  took 
a  more  tangible  form,  and  though  he  could  not  account  to 
himself  for  the  feeling  of  vague  regret  that  mingled  with  his 
admiration,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  young  girl,  it  was  strong 
enough  to  fill  his  heart  with  sadness.  Mrs.  Gray  noticed  the 
gloom  upon  his  brow  as  she  sat  in  her  arm-chair,  basking  in  the 
glow  of  that  noble  wood  fire.  A  dish  of  the  finest  crimson 
apples  had  just  been  placed  on  the  little  round  stand  before  her, 
aiid  she  began,  testing  their  mellowness  with  her  fingers,  as  a  hint 
for  her  nephew  to  circulate  them  among  her  guests.  Robert 
saw  nothing  of  this,  for  he  was  pondering  over  the  miserable 
position  of  that  young  girl,  in  his  mind,  and  had  no  idea  that 
his  abstraction  was  noticed. 

"Come — come,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  "you  have  been  moping 
there  long  enough,  nephew,  forgetting  manners  and  everything 
'else.  Here  are  the  apples  waiting,  and  no  one  to  hand  them 
round,  for  when  I  once  get  settled  in  this  easy-chair  " — here  the 
good  woman  gave  a  smiling  survey  of  her  ample  person,  which 
certainly  overflowed  the  chair  at  every  point,  leaving  all  but  a 
ridge  of  the  back  and  the  curving  arms  quite  invisible — "it 
isn't  a  very  easy  thing  to  get  up  again.  Now  bustle  about,  and 
while  we  old  women  rest  ourselves,  you  and  Julia,  there,  can  try 
your  luck  with  the  apple-seeds. 

"  I  remember  the  first  time  I  ever  surmised  that  Mr.  Gray 
had  taken  a  notion  to  me,  was  once  when  we  were  at  an  apple- 
cutting  together  down  in  Maine.  Somehow  Mr.  Gray  got  into 
my  neighborhood  when  we  ranged  round  the  great  basket  of 
apples.  I  felt  my  cheeks  burn  the  minute  he  drew  his  seat  so 
close  to  mine,  and  took  out  his  jack-knife  to  begin  work.  He 
pared  and  I  quartered.  I  never  looked  up  but  once — then 
his  cheek  was  redder  than  mine,  and  he  held  the  jack-knife  ter 
ribly  unsteady.  By-and-bye  he  got  a  noble,  great  apple,  yellow 
as  gold,  and  smooth  as  a  baby's  cheek.  I  was  looking  at  his 
hands  sidewise  from  under  my  lashes,  and  saw  that  he  was 
paring  it  carefully,  as  if  every  round  of  the  skin  was  a  strip  of 
gold.  At  last  he  cut  it  off  at  the  seed  end,  and  the  soft 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  337 

rings  fell  down  over  his  wrist  as  I  took  the  apple  from  his 
fingers. 

" '  Now,'  says  h-e,  in  a  whisper,  bending  his  head  a  little,  and 
raising  the  apple-peel  carefully  with  his  right  hand,  *  I'm  just  as 
sure  this  will  be  the  first  letter  of  a  name  that  I  love,  as  I  am 
that  we  are  alive.'  He  began  softly  whirling  the  apple-peel 
round  his  head ;  the  company  was  all  busy  with  one  another, 
and  I  was  the  only  one  who  saw  the  yellow  links  quivering 
around  his  head,  once,  twice,  three  times.  Then  he  held  it  still  a 
moment,  and  sat  looking  right  into  my  eyes.  I  held  my  breath, 
and  so  did  he. 

" '  Xow,'  says  he,  and  his  breath  came  out  with  a  quiver, 
*  what  if  it  should  be  your  name  ?' 

"I  did  not  answer,  and  we  both  looked  back  at  the  same 
time.  Sure  enough  it  was  a  letter  S.  No  pen  ever  made  one 
more  beautifully.  *  Just  as  I  expected,'  says  he,  and  his  eyes 
grew  bright  as  diamonds — 'just  as  I  expected.'  That  was  all 
he  said." 

"And  what  answer  did  you  make,  aunt?"  asked  Robert 
Otis,  who  had  been  listening  with  a  flushed  face,  "  What  did 
you  say?" 

"  I  didn't  speak  a  word,  but  quartered  on  just  as  fast  as  I 
could.  As  for  Mr.  Gray,  he  kept  paring,  and  paring,  like  all 
possessed.  I  thought  he  would  never  stop  paring,  or  speak  a 
word  more.  By-and-bye  he  stuck  the  point  of  his  knife  into  an 
apple,  and  unwinding  the  skin  from  around  it,  he  handed  it 
over  to  me.  It  was  a  red  skin,  I  remember,  and  cut  as  smooth 
as  a  ribbon. 

"  '  I  shouldn't  a  bit  wonder  if  that  dropped  into  a  letter  G/ 
says  Mr.  Gray.  '  Supposing  you  try  it.' 

"Well,  I  took  the  red  apple-skin,  and  whirled  it  three  times 
round  my  head,  and  down  it  went  on  to  the  floor,  curled  up  into 
the  nicest  capital  G  that  you  ever  sat  eyes  on. 

"  Mr.  Gray,  he  looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  sort  of  side- 
wise  into  my  face.  '  S.  G.,'  says  he,  taking  up  the  apple-skin, 
and  eating  it,  as  if  it  had  been  the  first  mouthful  of  a  Thanks- 

15 


338  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

giving  dinner.  '  How  would  you  like  to  see  them  two  letters 
on  a  new  set  of  silver  teaspoons  ?' 

"  I  re'lly  believe  you  could  have  lit  a  candle  at  my  face,  it 
burned  so;  but  I  couldn't  speak  more  than  if  I'd  been  born 
tongue-tied." 

"  But  did  you  never  answer  about  the  spoons  ?r;  asked  Julia, 

"  Well,  yes,  I  believe  I  did,  the  next  Sunday  night,"  said 
the  old  lady,  demurely,  smoothing  her  apron. 

What  was  there  in  Mrs.  Gray^s  simple  narrative  that  should 
have  brought  confusion  and  warm  blushes  into  those  two  yonng 
faces  ?  Why,  after  one  hastily  withdrawn  glance,  did  neither 
Robert  Otis  nor  Julia  Warren  look  at  each  other  again  that 
night  ? 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

STRUGGLES     AND    REVELS, 

Wine,  whie  for  the  heart,  in  its  struggle  of  pride, 

And  music  to  drown  all  this  withering  pain  I 
The  arrow,  the  arrow  is  deep  in  her  side  I 

Bring  music  and  wine  with  their  madness  again. 

THE  passions  take  their  distinctive  expression  from  the  na 
ture  in  which  they  find  birth.  The  grief  that  rends  one  heart 
like  an  earthquake,  sinks  with  dead,  silent  weight  into  another, 
uttering  no  sound,  giving  no  outward  sign,  and  yet  is  powerful, 
perhaps,  as  that  wnieh  exhausts  itself  in  tumult.  Some  flee 
from  grief,  half  defying,  half  evading  it,  pausing,  breathlessr  in 
the  race,  now  and  then,  to  find  the  arrow  still  buried  in  the 
side,  rankling  deeper  and  deeper  with  each  fierce  effort  to  cast 
it  out. 

Thus  it  was  with  the  woman  to  whom  our  story  tends — Ada, 
the  insulted  and  suffering  widow  of  Leicester.  There  had  been 
mutual  wrong  between  the  two;  both  had  sinned  greatly;  both 
had  tasted  deep  of  the  usual  consequences  of  sin.  During  his 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  339 

life  her  love  for  him  had  been  the  one  wild  passion  of  existence ; 
now  that  he  was  dead,  her  grief  partook  of  the  same  stormy 
nature.  It  was  wild,  fierce,  brilliant ;  it  thirsted  for  change  ; 
it  was  bitter  with  regrets  that  stung  her  into  the  very  madness 
of  sorrow. 

As  an  unbroken  horse  plunges  beneath  the  rider's  heel,  the 
object  of  grief  like  this  seeks  for  amelioration  in  excitement. 
It  is  a  sorrow  that  thirsts  for  action ;  that  arouses  some  kin 
dred  passion,  and  feeds  itself  with  that. 

Ada  Leicester  was  not  known  to  be  connected,  even  re 
motely,  with  the  man  for  whose  murder  old  Mr.  Warren  wa? 
now  awaiting  his  trial.  She  was  a  leader  in  the  fashionable 
world  ;  her  very  anguish  must  be  concealed  ;  her  groans  must 
be  uttered  in  private;  her  tears  quenched  firmly  till  they  turned 
to  fire  in  her  heart.  All  her  life  that  man  had  been  a  pain  and 
a  torment  to  her.  The  last  breath  she  had  seen  him  draw  was 
a  taunt,  his  last  look  an  insult ;  and  yet  these  very  memories 
embittered  her  grief.  He  had  turned  the  silver  thread  of  her 
life  into  iron,  but  it  broke  with  his  existence,  leaving  her 
appalled  and  objectless.  She  never  had,  never  could  love  an 
other;  and  what  is  a  woman  on  earth  without  love  as  a  memory, 
a  passion,  or  a  hope  ? 

Her  grief  Beanie  a  wild  passion.  She  strove  to  assuage  it 
in  reckless  gaiety,  and  plunged  into  all  the  excitements  of  artifi 
cial  life  with  a  fervor  that  made  every  hour  of  her  existence  a 
tumult.  The  opera  season  was  at  its  full  height.  Society 
had  once  more  concentrated  itself  in  New  York,  and  still  Ada 
was  the  brightest  of  its  stars.  Morning  dances  by  gas-light 
took  place  in  some  few  houses  where  novelty  was  an  object. 
Not  long  after  Leicester's  death  her  noble  mansion  was  closed 
for  a  morning  revel;  every  pointed  window  was  sealed  with 
shutters  and  muffled  with  the  richest  draperies.  Light  in  every 
form  of  beauty — the  pure  gas-flame — the  soft  glow  of  wax-can 
dles — the  moonlight  gleam  of  alabaster  lamps  flooded  the 
sumptuous  rooms,  excluding  every  ray  of  the  one  glorious  lamp 
which  God  has  kindled  in  the  sky.  Dancers  flitted  to  and  fro 


340  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

in  those  lofty  rooms;  garlands  of  choice  green-house  flowers 
scattered  fragrance  from  the  walls,  and  veiled  many  a  classic 
statue  with  their  impalpable  mist. 

Never  in  her  whole  life  had  Ada  appeared  more  wildly  bril 
liant.  Reckless,  sparkling,  scattering  smiles  and  wit  wherever 
she  passed;  now  whirling  through  the  waltz;  now  exchanging 
bright  repartees  with  her  guests  amid  the  pauses  of  the  music ; 
fluttering  from  group  to  group  like  a  bird  of  Paradise,  dashing 
perfume  from  its  native  flower  thickets,  she  flitted  from  room  to 
room;  now  sitting  alone  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  conservatory, 
her  hands  falling  languidly  down,  her  face  bowed  upon  her 
bocom,  the  fire  quenched  in  her  eyes,  she  felt  the  very  life  ebbing, 
as  it  were,  from  her  parted  and  pale  lips. 

Thus  with  the  strongest  contrasts,  fierce  alike  in  her  gaiety 
and  her  grief,  she  spent  that  miserable  morning.  The  transition 
from  one  state  to  another  would  have  been  startling  to  a  close 
observer,  but  the  changes  in  her  mood  were  like  lightning;  the 
pale  cheek  became  instantly  so  red;  the  dull  eye  so  bright,  that 
her  guests  saw  nothing  but  the  most  fascinating  coquetry  iii  all 
this,  and  each  new  shade  or  gleam  that  crossed  her  beautiful 
face  brought  down  fresh  showers  of  adulation  upon  her.  The 
usual  quiet  elegance  of  her  manner  was  for  the  time  forgotten. 

More^than  once  her  wild,  clear  laugh  rang  froijfcne  room  to 
another,  chiming  in  or  rising  above  the  music,  and  this  only 
charmed  her  guests  the  more.  It  was  a  new  feature  in  their 
idol.  It  was  not  for  her  wealth  or  her  beauty  alone  that  Ada 
Leicester  became  an  object  of  worship  that  day.  Like  a 
wounded  bird  that  makes  the  leaves  tremble  all  around  with  its 
anguish,  she  startled  society  into  more  intense  admiration  by  the 
splendor  of  her  agony. 

At  mid-day  her  guests  began  to  depart,  pouring  forth  from 
those  sumptuous  rooms  into  the  noontide  glare,  when  delicate 
dresses,  flushed  cheeks  and  languid  eyes  were  exposed  in  all  the 
disarray  which  is  sometimes  picturesque  when  enveloped  in 
night  shadows,  but  becomes  meretricious  in  the  broad  sunshine. 

A  few  of  her  most  distinguished  guests  remained  to  dinner  that 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  341 

day,  for  Ada  dreaded  to  be  alone,  and  so  kept  up  the  excitement 
that  was  burning  her  life  out.  If  her  spirits  flagged,  if  the 
smile  fled  from  her  lips  even  for  an  instant,  those  lips  were 
bathed  with  the  rich  wines  that  sparkled  on  her  board,  kindling 
them  into  smiles  and  bloom  again.  The  resources  of  her  intel 
lect  seemed  inexhaustible;  the  flashes  of  her  delicate  wit  grew 
keener  and  brighter  as  the  hours  wore  on. 

Her  table  was  surrounded  by  men  and  women  who  flash  like 
meteors  now  and  then  through  the  fashionable  circles  of  New 
York,  intellectual  aristocrats  that  enliven  the  insipid  monotony 
of  those  changing  circles,  as  stars  give  fire  and  beauty  to  the 
blue  of  a  summer  sky.  But  keen-sighted  as  these  people  were, 
they  failed  to  read  the  heart  that  was  delighting  them  with  its 
agony.  All  but  one,  and  he  was  not  seated  at  the  table,  he 
spoke  no  word,  and  won  no  attention  from  that  haughty  circle, 
save  by  the  subdued  and  even  solemn  awkwardness  of  look  and 
manner,  which  was  too  remarkable  for  entire  oblivion. 

Behind  Ada's  seat  there  stood  a  tall  man,  with  huge,  ungainly 
limbs,  and  a  stoop  in  the  shoulders.  He  was  evidently  a  servant, 
but  wore  no  livery  like  the  others ;  and  those  who  gave  a  thought 
to  the  subject  saw  that  he  waited  only  upon  his  mistress,  and 
that  once  or  twice  he  stooped  down  and  whispered  a  word  in  her 
ear,  which  Se  received  with  a  quick  and  imperious  motion  of  the 
head,  which  was  either  rejection  or  reproof  of  something  he  had 
urged. 

Nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  the  sadness  of  this 
man's  face  as  the  spirits  of  his  mistress  rose  with  the  contest 
of  intellect  that  was  going  on  around  her.  He  saw  the  bitter 
source  from  which  all  this  brightness  flowed,  and  every  smile 
upon  those  red  lips  deepened  the  gloom  so  visible  in  his  face. 

"Now,"  said  Ada,  rising  from  the  table,  and  leading  the 
way  to  her  boudoir,  for  it  had  been  an  impromptu  dinner,  and 
the  drawing-room  was  yet  in  confusion  after  the  dance;  "now 
let  us  refresh  ourselves  with  music.  An  hour's  separation,  a 
fresh  toilet,  and  we  will  all  meet  at  the  opera — then  to-morrow 
— what  shall  we  do  to-morrow  ?'7 


342  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

She  entered  the  boudoir  while  speaking,  and  as  if  smitten  by 
some  keen  memory,  lifted  one  hand  to  her  forehead,  reflecting 
languidly,  "To-morrow — yes,  what  shall  we  do  to-morrow?" 

"You  are  pale;  what  is  the  matter ?"  inquired  one  of  the 
lady  guests,  in  that  hurried  tone  of  sympathy  which  is  usually 
superficial  as  sweet.  "We  have  oppressed  you  with  all  this 
gaiety!" 

"Not  in  the  least — nothing  of  the  kind!"  exclaimed  the  hos 
tess,  with  a  clear  laugh.  "  It  was  the  perfume  from  those  vases. 
It  put  me  in  mind — it  made  me  faint!" 

She  rang  the  bell  while  speaking,  and  the  servant,  who  stood 
all  dinner-time  behind  her  chair,  entered. 

"Take  these  flowers  away,  Jacob,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 
vases,  "there  is  heliotrope  among  them,  and  you  know  the  scent 
of  heliotrope  affects  me — kiLls  me.  Never  allow  flowers  to  be 
put  in  these  rooms  again.  Not  a  leaf,  not  a  bud — do  you 
understand  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam,"  answered  the  servant,  with  calm  humility, 
"I  understand!  It  was  not  I  that  placed  them  there  now!" 

Ada  seated  herself  on  the  couch,  resting  her  forehead  upon 
one  hand,  as  if  the  faintness  still  continued.  Her  lips  and  all 
around  her  mouth  grew  pallid.  Though  the  flowers  were  gone, 
their  effect  still  seemed  to  oppress  her  more  am  more.  At 
length  she  started  up  with  a  hysterical  laugh  and  went  into  the 
bed-chamber.  When  she  came  forth  her  cheeks  were  damask 
again,  and  her  lips  red  as  coral ;  but  a  dusky  circle  under  the 
eyes,  and  a  faint,  spasmodic  twitching  about  the  mouth,  revealed 
how  artificial  the  bloom  was.  From  that  moment  all  her  gaiety 
returned,  and  in  her  graceful  glee  her  guests  forgot  the  agitation 
that  had  for  a  moment  surprised  them. 

Later  in  the  evening,  Ada  drove  to  the  Opera  House,  where 
she  again  met  the  gay  friends  who  had  thronged  her  dwelling  at 
mid-day.  Still  did  she  Surpass  them  all  in  the  superb  but 
hasty  toilet  which  she  had  assumed,  after  the  morning  revel. 
Many  an  eye  was  turned  admiringly  upon  her  sofa  that  night, 
little  dreaming  that  the  opera-cloak  of  rose-cclored  cashmere, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  ty§ 

with  it s  blossom-tinted  lining  and  border  of  snowy  swan's-down, 
covered  a  bosom  throbbing  with  suppressed  anguish.  Little 
could  that  admiring  crowd  deem  that  the  brilliants  interlinked 
with  burning  opal  stones  that  glowed  with  ever-restless  light 
upon  her  arms,  her  bosom,  and  down  the  corsage  of  her  brocade 
dress,  were  to  the  wretched  woman  as  so  many  pebbles  that  the 
rudest  foot  might  tread  upon.  Her  cheeks  were  in  a  glow;  her 
eyes  sparkled,  and  the  graceful  unrest  which  left  her  no  two 
minutes  in  the  same  position,  seemed  but  a  pretty  feminine  wile 
to  exhibit  the  splendor  of  her  dress.  How  could  the  crowd 
suppose  that  the  heart  over  which  those  jewels  burned,  was 
•aching  with  a  burden  of  crushed  tears. 

She  sat  amid  the  brilliant  throng,  unmindful  of  its  admiration. 
The  music  rushed  to  her  ear  in  sweet  gushes  of  passion. 
But  she  sat  smilingly  there,  unconscious  of  its  power  or  its 
pathos.  It  sighed  through  the  building  soft  and  low  as  the 
spring  air  in  a  bed  of  violets ;  but  even  then  it  failed  to  awake 
her  attention.  Unconsciously  the  notes  stole  over  her  heart, 
and  feeling  a  rush  of  emotions  sweeping  over  her,  she  started 
up,  waved  an  adieu  to  her  friends,  and  left  the  Opera  House. 
Half  a  dozen  of  the  most  distinguished  gentlemen  of  her  party 
sprang  up  to  lead  her  out.  She  took  the  nearest  arm  and  left 
the  house,  simply  uttering  a  hurried  good-night  as  she  stepped 
into  the  carriage.  There  was  no  eye  to  look  upon  her  then. 
Those  who  had  followed  her  with  admiring  glances  as  she  left 
the  opera,  little  thought  how  keen  was  her  agony  as  she  rolled 
homeward  in  that  sumptuous  carriage,  her  cheek  pressed  hard 
against  the  velvet  lining;  her  fingers  interlocked  and  wringing 
each  other  in  the  wild  anguish  to  which  she  abandoned  herself. 


344  FASHION    AND    FAMINE 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

ADA     LEICESTER    AND    JACOB     S  T  R  0  TST  & 

We  drove  him  to  that  fearful  gulf, 

In  the  sharp  pangs  of  his  despair, 
As  angry  hunters  chase  a  wolf 

From  open  field  and  hidden  lair. 

THE  servant  who  sat  waiting  in  the  vestibule  was  startled  bj 
the  hard,  tearless  misery  of  Ada's  face,  as  she  entered  her  own 
dwelling  that  night.  He  looked  at  her  earnestly,  and  seemed 
about  to  speak,  but  she  swept  by  him  with  averted  eyes  and 
ascended  the  stairs. 

It  was  the  same  man  who  had  stood  beside  her  chair  at  din 
ner  that  day.  The  look  of  anxiety  was  on  his  features  yet,  and 
he  pressed  his  lips  hard  together  as  she  passed  him,  evidently 
curbing  some  sharp  sensation  that  the  haughty  bearing  ©f  his 
mistress  aroused.  He  stood  looking  after  her  as  she  glided  with 
a  swift,  noiseless  tread  over  the  richly  carpeted  stairs,  her  pale 
hand  now  and  then  gleaming  out  in  startling  relief  from  the 
ebony  balustrade,  and  her  stony  face  mocking  the  artificial  scar 
let  of  her  mouth.  She  turned  at  the  upper  landing,  and  he  saw 
her  glide  away  in  the  soft  twilight  overhead.  He  stood  a  m<D- 
ment  with  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  spot  where  she  had  disap 
peared,  then  he  followed  up  the  stairs  with  a  step  as  firm  and 
rapid  as  hers  had  been.  Even  his  heavy  foot  left  no  sound  OQ 
the  mass  of  woven  flowers  that  covered  the  steps,  and  the 
shadow  cast  by  his  ungainly  figure  moved  no  more  silently  than 
himself. 

He  opened  several  doors,  but  they  closed  after  him  without 
noise,  and  Ada  was  unconscious  of  his  presence  for  several  mo 
ments  after  he  stood  within  her  boudoir.  A  fire  burned  in  the 
silver  grate,  casting  a  sunset  glow  over  the  room,  but  leaving 
many  of  its  objects  in  shadow  j  for  save  a  moonlight  gleam  that 


ASHION      AND      FAMINE.  345 

came  from  a  lamp  in  the  dressing-room,  no  other  light  was 
near. 

Ada  had  flung  her  mantle  on  the  couch,  and  with  her  arms 
folded  on  the  black  marble  of  the  mantel-piece,  bent  her  fore 
head  upon  them,  and  stood  thus  statue-like  gazing  into  the  fire. 
A  clear  amethystine  flame  quivered  over  the  coal,  striking  the 
opals  and  brilliants  that  ornamented  her  dress,  till  they  burned 
like  coals  of  living  fire  upon  the  snow  of  her  arms  and  bosom. 
Thus  with  the  same  prismatic  light  spreading  from  the  jewels 
to  her  rigid  face,  she  seemed  more  like  a  fallen  angel  mourning 
over  her  ruin  than  a  living  woman. 

At  length  the  servant  made  a  slight  noise.  Ada  lifted  up  her 
head,  and  a  frown  darkened  her  face. 

"  I  did  not  ring — I  do  not  require  anything  of  you  to-night," 
she  said. 

"  I  know  it.  I  know  well  enough  that  you  require  nothing 
of  me — that  my  very  devotion  is  hateful  to  you.  Why  is  it  ? 
I  came  up  herjp,  to-night,  on  purpose  to  ask  the  question — why 
is  it  ?"  answered  the  man,  with  a  grave  dignity,  which  was  very 
remote  from  the  manner  which  a  servant,  however  favored,  is 
expected  to  maintain  toward  his  mistress.  "  What  have  I  done 
to  deserve  this  treatment  ?" 

Ada  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a  moment,  and  then  her  lip 
curled  with  a  bitter  smile. 

"  What  have  you  done,  Jacob  Strong  !  Can  you  ask  that 
question  of  William  Leicester's  wife,  so  soon  after  your  own 
act  has  made  her  a  widow  ?" 

"  But  how  ? — how  did  I  make  you  a  widow  ?"  said  he,  turning 
pale  with  suppressed  feeling. 

"  How  ?"  cried  Ada,  almost  with  a  shriek,  for  the  passion  of 
her  nature  had  been  gathering  force  all  day,  and  now  it  burst 
forth  with  a  degree  of  violence  that  shook  her  whole  frame. 
"Who  sat  like  a  great,  hideous  spider  in  his  web,  watching  him 
as  he  wove  and  entangled  the  meshes  of  crime  around  him  ? 
Who  stung  my  pride,  spurred  on  all  that  was  unforgiving  and 
haughty  in  my  nature,  till  I  too — unnatural  wretch — who  had 

15* 


346  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

wronged  and  sinned  against  him — turned  in  my  unholy  pride, 
and  drove  him  into  deeper  evil  ?  It  was  you,*Jacob  Strong, 
who  did  this.  It  was  you  who  urged  him  into  the  fearful  strait, 
that  admitted  of  no  escape  but  death.  The  guilt  of  this  self- 
murder  rests  with  you,  and  with  me.  My  heart  is  black  with  his 
blood  ;  my  brain  reels  when  the  thought  presses  on  it.  I  hate 
you — and  oh  !  a  thousand  times  more  do  I  hate  myself — the 
pitiful  tool  of  my  own  menial  1" 

"  Your  menial,  Ada  Wilcox — have  I  ever  been  that?" 

"No,"  was  the  passionate  answer,  "I  have  been  your  menial, 
your  dupe.  You  have  made  me  his  murderer.  I  loved  him, 
oh!  Father  of  mercies,  how  I  loved  him!" 

The  wretched  woman  wrung  her  hands,  and  waved  them  up 
and  down  in  the  firelight  so  rapidly,  that  the  restless  brilliants 
upon  them  seemed  shooting  out  sparks  of  lightning. 

"I  thought  he  would  come  back.  He  was  cruel — he  was 
insolent — but  what  was  that  ?  We  might  have  *known  his 
haughty  spirit  would  never  bend.  If  he  had  .died  any  other 
death — oh!  anything,  anything  but  this  rankling  knowledge, 
that  I,  his  wife,  drove  him  to  self-murder!" 

Jacob  Strong  left  his  position  at  the  door,  and  coming  close 
up  to  his  mistress,  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  He  could  not 
endure  her  reproaches.  Her  words  stung  his  honest  heart  to 
the  core. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said,  with  gentle  firmness — "  sit  down,  Ada 
Wilcox,  and  listen  to  me.  There  is  yet  something  that  I  have 
to  say.  If  it  will  remove  any  of  the  bitterness  that  you  harbor 
against  me,  if  it  can  reconcile  you  to  yourself,  I  can  tell  you 
that  there  is  great  doubt  if  your — if  Mr.  Leicester  did  commit 
suicide.  Thinking  it  might  grieve  you  more  deeply,  I  kept  the 
papers  away  that  said  anything  of  the  matter ;  but  even  now  a 
man  lies  in  prison  charged  with  his  murder!" 

"  Charged  with  his.  murder !"  repeated  Ada,  starting. 
"How? — when?  She — his  mother — said  it  was  self-des 
truction  !" 

"  She  believes  it,  perhaps  believes  it  yet,  but  others  think 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  347 

differently.  He  was  found  dead  in  a  miserable  basement,  alone 
with  the  old  man  they  have  imprisoned.  Why  he  went  there 
no  one  can  guess  ;  but  it  is  known  that  he  was  in  that  base 
ment  the  night  before,  but  a  little  earlier  than  the  time  when 
he  appeared  at  your  ball.  If  he  had  any  portion  of  the  money 
obtained  from  us  about  him,  that  may  have  tempted  the  old 
man,  who  is  miserably  poor," 

Jacob  was  going  on,  but  his  mistress,  who  had  listened  with 
breathless  attention,  interrupted  him. 

"  Do  you  believe  this?  Do  you  believe  that  he  was  mur 
dered?" 

"Very  strong  proofs  exist  against  the  old  man,"  replied 
Jacob — "  the  public  think  him  guilty." 

Ada  drew  a  deep  breath, 

"  You  have  taken  a  terrible  load  from  my  heart,"  she  said, 
pressing  one  hand  to  her  bosom,  and  sinking  down  upon  the 
couch  with  a  low,  hysterical  laugh.  "  He  is  dead,  but  there  is 
a  chance  that  I  did  not  kill  him.  I  begin  to  loathe  myself 
less." 

"  And  me  ! — me  you  will  never  cease  to  hate  ?" 

"  You  have  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Jacob  Strong,  better 
than  I  deserved,"  answered  Ada,  reaching  forth  her  hand, 
which  the  servant  wrung  rather  than  pressed. 

"  And  this  last  act,"  he  said,  "  when  I  tried  to  free  you  from 
the  grasp  of  a  vile  man,  was  the  most  kind,  the  most  friendly 
thing  I  ever  did  !" 

Ada  started  up  and  drew  her  hand  from  his  grasp. 

"  Hush,  not  a  word  more,"  she  said,  "  if  we  are  to  be  any 
thing  to  each  other  hereafter.  He  was  my  husband — he  is 
dead  !" 

She  sunk  back  to  the  cushions  of  her  couch  a  moment  after, 
and  veiling  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  fell  into  thought.  Jacob 
stood  humbly  before  her ;  for  though  they  spoke  and  acted  as 
friends,  nay,  almost  as  brother  and  sister,  he  never  lost  thi; 
respectful  demeanor  befitting  his  position  in  Ada's  house 
hold. 


348  FASHION      AND      FAMINE.. 

She  sat  up,  at  length,  with  a  calmer  and  more  resolute  ex 
pression  of  countenance. 

"  Now  tell  me  all  that  relates  to  his  death,"  she  said. 
"  Who  is  charged  with  it  ?  What  is  the  evidence  ?" 

Jacob  related  all  that  he  knew  regarding  the  arrest  of  old 
Mr.  Warren.  In  his  own  heart  he  did  not  believe  the  poor 
man  guilty,  but  he  abstained  from  expressing  this,  for  it  was 
an  intuition  rather  than  a  belief,  and  Jacob  could  not  but  see 
that  his  own  exculpation  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair  creature  to 
whom  he  spoke,  would  depend  upon  her  belief  in  another's 
guilt.  Jacob  had  no  courage  to  express  more  than  known 
facts  as  they  appeared  in  the  case.  The  vague  impressions 
that  haunted  him  were,  in  truth,  too  indefinite  for  words. 

Ada  listened  with  profound  attention.  She  had  not  been  so 
still  or  so  firm  before,  since  her  husband's  death.  It  required 
time  for  feelings  strong  as  hers  to  turn  into  a  new  channel,  and 
the  passage  from  self-hatred  to  revenge  was  still  as  it  was 
terrible. 

She  remained  silent  for  some  minutes  after  Jacob  had  told 
her  all,  and  when  she  did  speak,  the  whole  character  of  her 
face  was  changed. 

"  If  this  man  is  guilty,  Leicester's  death  lies  not  here  !"  she 
said,  pressing  one  hand  hard  upon  her  heart,  as  she  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  boudoir.  "  When  he  is  arraigned  for 
trial,  I  am  acquitted  or  convicted.  You  also,  Jacob  Strong ; 
for  if  this  old  man  is  not  Leicester's  murderer,  you  and  I  drove 
him  to  suicide." 

Jacob  did  not  reply.  In  his  soul  he  believed  every  step  that 
he  had  taken  against  William  Leicester  to  be  right,  and  he  felt 
guiltless  of  his  death,  no  matter  in  what  form  it  came  ;  but  he 
knew  that  argument  would  never  remove  the  belief  that  had 
fixed  like  a  monomania  upon  that  unhappy  woman,  and  wisely, 
therefore,  he  attempted  none. 

"I  have  told  you  all,"  he  said,  moving  toward  the  door. 
"  In  any  case  my  conscience  is  at  rest !" 

She  did  not  appear  to  heed  his  words,  but  asked  abruptly, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  349 

"  Are  the  laws  of  America  strict  and  searching  ?  Do  mur 
derers  ever  escape  here  ?" 

"  Sometimes  they  do,  no  doubt,"  answered  Jacob,  with  a 
grim  smile",  "  but  then  probably  quite  as  many  innocent  men 
are  hung,  so  that  the  balance  is  kept  about  equal." 

"  And  how  do  the  guilty  escape  ?" 

"  Oh,  by  any  of  the  thousand  ways  that  a  smart  lawyer  can 
invent.  With  money  enough  it  is  easy  to  evade  the  law,  or 
tire  it  out  with  exceptions  and  appeals." 

"  Then  money  can  do  this  ?" 

"  What  is  there  that  money  cannot  do  ?" 

A  wan  smile  flitted  over  Ada's  face. 

"  Oh  !  who  should  know  its  power  better  than  myself  ?"  she 
said.  Then  she  resumed.  "  But  this  man,  this  grey-headed 
murderer — has  he  this  power  ? — can  he  control  money  enough 
to  screen  the  blood  he  has  shed  ?" 

"  He  is  miserably  poor  !" 

"Then  the  trial  will  be  an  unprejudiced  one.  If  proven 
guilty  he  must  atone  for  the  guilt.  If  acquitted  fairly,  openly, 
without  the  aid  of  money  or  influence,  then  are  we  guilty,  Jacob 
Strong,  guilty  as  those  who  hurl  a  man  to  the  brink  of  a  pre 
cipice,  which  he  is  sure  to  plunge  down." 

"  Xo  man  who  simply  pursues  his  duty  should  reproach  him 
self  for  the  crime  of  another,"  was  the  grave  reply. 

"  But  have  /  done  my  duty  ?  Can  I  be  guiltless  of  my 
husband's  desperate  act  ?" 

Jacob  was  silent. 

"  You  cannot  answer  me,  my  friend,"  said  Ada  mournfully. 

"Yes!  I  can.  William  Leicester's  death,  if  he  in  fact  fell 
by  his  own  hand,  was  the  natural  end  of  a  vicious  life." 

Ada  waved  her  hand  sharply,  thus  forbidding  him  to  pro 
ceed  with  the  subject,  and  entering  her  dressing-room,  closed 
the  door. 

Jacob  stood  for  a  time  gazing  vacantly  at  the  door  through 
which  she  had  disappeared,  then  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  the 
strange  being  left  the  boudoir,  but  a  vague  feeling  of  self-re- 


350  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

preach  at  his  heart,  rendered  him  more  than  usually  sad  all 
the  next  day.  True,  he  had  changed  the  current  of  Ada's 
grief,  had  lifted  a  burden  of  self-reproach  from  her  heart;  but 
had  he  not  filled  it  with  other  and  not  less  bitter  passions  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ADA'S     SOLITARY     BREAKFAST. 

My  tortured  soul  is  sick,  and  every  nerve 
Answers  its  promptings  with  an  aching  strain, 

Yet  from  my  task  I  may  not  pause  or  swerve — 
Rest  is  a  curse,  and  every  thought  a  pain. 

FOR  the  first  time  since  her  husband's  death,  Ada  slept 
soundly,  till  deep  in  the  morning.  But  her  slumber  was  haunt 
ed  by  dreams  that  sent  shadows  painful  and  death-like  over 
her  beautiful  face.  More  than  once  her  maid  stole  from  the 
dressing-room  into  the  rosy  twilight  of  the  bed-chamber,  and 
stooped  anxiously  over  her  mistress  as  she  slept,  for  the  faint 
moans  that  broke  from  her  lips,  pallid  even  in  that  rich  light, 
and  parted  with  a  sort  of  painful  smile — startled  the  servant 
as  she  prepared  her  mistress's  toilet. 

It  was  almost  mid-day  when  this  unearthly  slumber  passed 
off,  but  the  brightest  sun  could  only  fill  those  richly  draped 
chambers  with  a  twilight  atmosphere,  that  allowed  the  sleeper 
to  glide  dreamily  from  her  couch  to  the  pursuits  of  life.  When 
the  mechanics  throughout  the  city  were  at  their  noonday  meal, 
Ada  crept  into  her  dressing-room,  pale  and  languid  as  if  she 
had  just  risen  from  a  sick-bed.  Upon  a  little  ebony  table 
near  the  fire,  a  breakfast  service  of  frosted  silver,  and  the  most 
delicate  Sevres  china  stood  ready.  Ada  sunk  into  the  great 
easy-chair,  which  stood  near  it,  cushioned  with  blossom-colored 
damask,  which  gleamed  through  an  over  drapery  of  heavy 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  351 

point  lace.  The  maid  came  in  with  chocolate,  snowy  little 
rolls,  just  from  the  hands  of  her  French  cook,  and  two"  crystal 
dishes,  the  one  stained  through  with  the  ruby  tint  of  some  rich 
foreign  jelly,  the  other  amber-hued  with  the  golden  honeycomb 
that  lay  within  it.  Delicate  butter,  moulded  like  a  handful  of 
strawberries,  lay  in  a  crystal  grape-leaf  in  one  .corner  of  the 
salver,  and  a  soft  steam  floated  from  the  small  chocolate  urn, 
veiling  the  whole  with  a  gossamer  cloud. 

Altogether,  that  luxurious  room,  the  repast  so  delicate,  but 
evidently  her  ordinary  breakfast  ;  the  lady  herself  in  all  the 
beautiful  disarray  of  a  muslin  wrapper,  half  hidden,  half  exposed 
by  the  loosely  knotted  silk  cord  that  confined  a  dressing-gown, 
quilted  and  lined  with  soft  white  silk — all  this  composed  a  pic 
ture  of  the  most  sumptuous"  enjoyment.  But  look  in  that 
woman's  face  !  See  the  dark  circles  beneath  those  heavy  violet 
eyes.  Mark  how  languidly  that  mouth  uncloses,  when  she 
turns  to  speak.  See  the  nervous  start  which  she  makes  when 
the  crystal  and  silver  jar  against  each  other,  as  the  maid  places 
them  upon  the  table.  Is  there  not  something  in  all  this  that 
would  make  the  rudest  mechanic  pause,  before  he  consented 
to  exchange  the  comforts  won  by  his  honest  toil,  for  the  splen 
dor  that  seemed  so  tempting  at  the  first  glance  ? 

Ada  broke  a  roll  in  two,  allowed  one  of  the  golden  strawber 
ries  to  melt  away  in  its  fragments,  then  laid  it  down  untasted. 
Her  heart  was  sick,  her  appetite  gone,  and  after  drinking  one 
cup  of  the  chocolate,  she  turned  half  loathing  from  that  exqui 
site  repast. 

"  Move  the  things  away  !"  she  said,  to  the  waiting-woman. 

"  Will  madam  chose  nothing  else  ?"  said  the  servant,  hesitat 
ing  and  looking  back  as  she  carried  off  the  tray. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  her  mistress. 

The  tone  was  one  that  forbade  further  inquiry  ;  so  the  maid 
left  the  apartment  ;  and  Ada  was  alone,  restless,  feverish, 
unhappy. 

She  rose,  and  walking  to  the  window,  looked  out  ;  but  a  few 
minutes  spent  thus  appeared  to  tire  her;  and  throwing  herself 


352  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

again  into  her  chair,  she  took  up  a  book  and  attempted  to  read. 
But  she  still  found  no  occupation  for  her  thoughts.  At  last 
she  flung  down  the  volume,  and  rising,  paced  the  chamber. 

The  reflection  grew  and  grew  upon  her,  that  if  the  old  man 
should  be  convicted  of  the  murder,  she  would  be  free  from  the  guilt 
of  Leicester's  death.  Her  mind  had  been  in  a  morbid  condition 
ever  since  that  event,  or  she  would  not  now  have  thought  this, 
nor  have  before  regarded  herself  as  criminal.  'That  the  old  man 
should  be  proved  guilty,  became  an  insane  wish  on  her  part. 
She  clutched  at  it  with  despairing  hope.  The  more  she  thought 
of  this  means  of  escape  from  her  remorse,  the  wilder  became  her 
desire  to  see  the  prisoner  convicted.  Soon  the  belief  in  his 
criminality  became  as  fixed  in  her  mind  as  the  persuasion  of  her 
own  existence. 

A  stern,  passionate  desire  for  revenge  now  took  possession  of 
her.  The  very  idea  that  the  accused  might  yet  escape,  through 
some  technicality,  drove  her  almost  to  madness  ;  and  as  she 
conjured  up  this  picture,  her  eyes  flashed  like  those  of  an  angry 
tigress,  and  the  workings  of  her  countenance  betrayed  the 
tumult  of  her  soul. 

At  last,  catching  the  reflection  of  her  person  in  a  mirror,  she 
started  at  her  wild  appearance  ;  a  bitter  smile  passed  over  her 
face,  and  she  said — 

"  Why  do  I  seek  this  old  man's  blood  ?  Am  I  crazed, 
or  a  woman  no  longer?  But  heaven  knows,"  she  added,  clasp 
ing  her  forehead  with  her  hands,  "  that  I  have  endured  enough 
to  transform  me  out  of  humanity." 

With  a  heavy  movement  she  rang  the  bell,  ordered  her 
maid  to  dress  her,  and  directed  the  carriage  to  be  in  wait 
ing. 

When  Ada  Leicester  descended  to  her  carriage,  radiant  in 
majestic  beauty,  the  last  thought  that  would  have  presented 
itself  to  a  spectator  mast  have  been  that  this  queenly  woman 
was  unhappy.  But  the  color  in  her  cheek  ;  the  blaze  of 
her  brilliant  eyes  ;  and  the  proud,  almost  disdainful  step 
with  which  she  crossed  the  sidewalk,  were  deceptive  as  the 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  353 

fever  of  disease.  The  excitement  which  so  increased  her  lofty 
beauty,  was  purchased  with  inexpressible  pangs,  as  the  hues  of 
the  dying  dolphin  are  procured  by  intolerable  anguish. 

The  day  was  bright;  the  breeze  was  fresh;  everything  around 
was  beautiful  and  exhilarating.  But  the  pleasant  face  of  nature 
failed  to  allay  the  fever  of  Ada  Leicester's  soul.  One  thought 
only  possessed  her;  "  What  if  the  old  man  should  be  acquitted  ?" 
This  idea  grew  upon  her,  and  still  grew.  She  tried  to  shake  it 
off.  She  endeavored  to  become  interested  in  the  equipages  driv 
ing  past  on  the  Bloomiugdale  road,  and  failing  there,  turned  her 
heavy  eyes  on  the  green  fields  along  the  North  River,  or  the 
sailing  vessels  ploughing  up  and  down  its  WR^r.  But  it  was  all 
in  vain;  Ada  had  no  interest  in  anything  so  quiet  as  those  scenes. 

That  dark  thought  clung  to  her.  Now  it  rose  into  a  terror, 
and  a  new  idea  crossed  her  mind.  If  the  murderer  should  escape, 
and  her  husband  be  unavenged,  would  not  her  guilt  be  then 
almost  aA  great  as  if  she  had  driven  Leicester  to  suicide  ? 

Everything  became  a  blank  around  her ;  she  was  only  conscious 
of  this  one  thought.  She  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing ;  for  her 
entire  soul  was  absorbed  in  one  morbid  idea.  It  became  a 
monomania.  Finally  she  pulled  the  check  string,  and,  in  a 
sharp  tone,  directed  the  coachman  to  drive  back  to  the  city. 

The  man  looked  around,  startled  by  her  voice ;  he  was  alarmed 
a-t  the  aspect  of  her  countenance,  which  was  almost  livid.  She 
did  not  notice  it,  but  closed  the  curtain,  and  threw  herself  back 
on  the  cushions. 

This  terror  was  visible  in  his  look.  As  they  entered  the  city, 
the  coachman  asked  if  he  should  drive  home. 

This  roused  her  from  her  stupor.  A  distance  of  five  miles 
had  been  traversed  since  she  had  last  spoken,  yet  the  interval 
appeared  to  her  scarcely  a  minute.  She  looked  out ,  with 
surprise.  Recognizing  the  place,  she  pulled  the  check-string, 
and  directed  the  servant  to  drive  to  the  office  of  an  advo 
cate,  renowned,  especially  in  criminal  cases,  for  his  acute  cross- 
examinations,  not  less  than  for  his  eloquence. 

The  lawyer  was  at  home  when  the  carriage  drew  up  at  his 


354  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

door.  He  jdaew  Ada  Leicester  as  a  leading  star  in  society,  and 
jwras  su£pri8€fdTto  see  her  enter  his  office  so  abruptly.  He  rose, 
bowed  profoundly,  and  handed  her  a  chair, 

His  visitor  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said, 

"There  is  a  man  now  in  prison,  charged  with  the  murder  of 
one  William  Leicester — you  know  the  case,  perhaps — and  1  have 
called  on  you  to  make  it  impossible  for  the  prisoner  to  escape 
unless  he  is  really  innocent."  She  uttered  these  last  words 
slowly,  with  her  eye  fixed  on  the  advocate  as  she  spoke. 

"There  is  such  a  thing,  I  believe,  as  the  friends  of  a  guilty 
man  securing  legal  assistance  when  the  commonwealth  proves 
lax  or  indifferent." 

"  Oh!  yes,  madam,"  said  the  lawyer.  "The  thing  is  of  com 
mon  occurrence." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Ada,  slowly,  taking  a  note  of  large  value 
from  her  porte-monnaie.  "  I  wish  you  to  see  the  district-attorney, 
and  assist  him  in  this  trial." 

"You  would  retain  me — I  understand  your  wish,"  said  the 
lawyer,  too  polite  to  touch  the  note  which  she  laid  before  him. 
yet  unable  to  prevent  a  glance  at  its  denomination;  and  bowing 
again  profoundly,  as  his  visitor  rosprto  go,  he  continued,  "the 
guilty  man  shall  not  escape,  madam." 

Ada  Leicester  drove  home  with  a  lighter  heart,  feeling  as  if 
a  great  duty  had  been  discharged. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

THE     PRISON     WO  MAX     IN     ADA>S     DRESSING-ROOM. 

Look  not  s«  haughtily,  imperious  dame ; 

Chance  digs  the  gulf  that  lies  between  us  two : 
Mine  is  the  open,  yours  the  hidden  shame  ; 

The  vulture  soars  with  me,  but  skulks  with  you. 

ADA  LEICESTER  had  scarcely  gained  her  apartment,  when 
Jacob  Strong  entered  it.     He  came  in  with  a  tread  so  heavy, 


FASHION      AND      FA 

that  it  made  itself  heard  even  through  the 

carpet.     She  looked  up  at  him  wearily,  yet 

cob,  so  phlegmatic,  so  sturdy  in  all  other  cases,  neveF 

possessed  with  his  mistress;  one  glance  of  those  eyes,  one  wave 

of  that  hand  was  enough  to  confuse  his  brain,  and  make  the 

strong  heart  flutter  in  his  bosom  like  the  wings  of  a  wild  bird. 

"  Madam/'  he  stammered,  shifting  his  huge  feet  unsteadily 
to  and  fro  on  the  carpet,  "  there  is  a  woman  down  stairs  who 
wants  to  see  you." 

"  I  can  see  no  one  this  morning  ;  send  her  away!" 

"I  tried  that,  madam,  but  she  answers  that  her  business  is 
important,  and,  in  short,  that  she  will  see  you." 

Ada  opened  her  eyes  wide,  and  half  turned  in  her  chair. 
This  insolent  message  aroused  her  somewhat. 

"  Indeed  !     What  does  she  look  like  ?     Who  can  it  be  ?" 

"  She  is  a  very  common-looking  person,  handsome  enough, 
but  unpleasant." 

"  You  never  saw  her  before,  then  ?" 

"  No,  never !" 

"  Let  her  come  up  ;  I  cannot  well  give  the  next  ten  minutes 
to  anything  more  miserable  than  myself,"  said  Ada  ;  "  let  her 
come  up!" 

Jacob  left  the  room,  and  Ada,  aroused  to  some  little  interest 
in  the  person  who  had  so  peremptorily  demanded  admission  to 
her  presence,  threw  off  something  of  her  languor  as  she  saw 
the  door  swing  open  to  admit  her  singular  guest. 

A  woman  entered,  with  a  haughty,  almost  rude  air.  Her 
dress  was  clean,  but  of  cheap  material,  and  put  on  with  an 
effort  at  tidiness,  as  if  in  correction  of  some  long-acquired  habits 
which  she  had  found  it  difficult  to  fling  off.  A  black  hood, 
lined  with  faded  crimson  silk,  was  thrown  back  from  her  face, 
revealing  large  Roman  features,  fierce  dark  eyes,  and  a  mouth 
that,  in  its  heavy  fullness,  struck  the  beholder  more  unplea 
santly  even  than  the  ferocious  brightness  of  those  large  eyes. 

The  woman  looked  around  her  as  she  entered  the  dressing- 
room,  and  a  faint  sneer  curled  her  lip,  while  she  took  in,  with 


356  1ASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

a  contemptuous  glance,  all  the  elegant  luxury  of  'that  little 
room.  Ada  had  not  for  an  instant  dreamed  of  inviting  a  crea 
ture  so  unprepossessing  to  sit  down  in  the  room  so  exquisitely 
fitted  up  for  her  own  enjoyment ;  but  the  woman  waited  for  no 
indication  of  the  kind.  She  cast  one  keen  glance  on  the  sur 
prised  and  somewhat  startled  face  turned  upon  her  as  she 
entered,  another  around  the  room,  which  contained  only  two 
chairs  beside  the  one  occupied  by  its  mistress,  and  seizing  one, 
a  frail  thing  of  carved  ebony,  cushioned  with  the  most  delicate 
embroidery  on  white  moire,  she  took  possession  of  it. 

At  another  time  Ada  would  have  rung  the  bell  and  ordered 
the  woman  to  be  put  from  the  room;  but  now  there  was  a  sort 
of  fascination  in  this  audacious  coolness  that  aroused  a  reckless 
feeling  in  her  own  heart.  She  allowed  the  woman  to  seat  her 
self,  therefore,  without  a  word ;  nay,  a  slight  smile  quivered 
about  her  lip  as  she  heard  the  fragile  ebony  crack,  as  if  about 
to  give  way  beneath  the  heavy  burden  cast  so  roughly  upon  it. 

The  strange  being  sat  in  silence  for  some  moments,  examin 
ing  Ada  with  a  bold,  searching  glance,  that,  spite  of  herself, 
brought  the  blood  to  that  haughty  woman's  cheek.  After  her 
fierce  black  eyes  had  roved  up  and  down  two  or  three  times, 
from  the  pretty  lace  cap  to  the  embroidered  slipper,  that  be 
gan  to  beat  with  impatience  against  the  cushion  which  it  had 
before  so  languidly  pressed,  the  woman  at  last  condescended  to 
speak. 

"  You  are  rich,  madam;  people  say  so,  and  all  this  looks  like 
it.  They  say,  too,  that  you  are  generous,  good  to  the  poor  ; 
that  you  give  away  money  by  handsful.  I  want  a  little  of  this 
money!" 

Ada  looked  hard  at  the  woman,  who  returned  the  glance  al 
most  fiercely 

"  You  need  not  search  my  face  so  sharply,"  she  said,  "  I 
don't  want  the  money  for  myself.  One  gets  along  on  a  little  in 
New  York,  and  I  can  always  have  that  little  without  begging 
of  rich  women.  I  would  scrub  anybody's  kitchen  floor  from 
morning  till  night,  rather  than  ask  you  or  any  other  proud  aris- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  357 

tocrat  for  a  red  cent !  It  isn't  for  myself  I've  come,  but  for  a  fel- 
iow  prisoner,  or  rather  one  that  was  a  fellow-prisoner,  for  I'm  out 
of  the  cage  just  now.  It's  for  an  old  man  I  want  the  money,  a 
good  old  man  that  the  night-hawks  have  taken  up  for  murder !" 

Ada  started,  but  the  woman  did  not  observe  it,  and  went  on 
with  increasing  warmth. 

"  The  old  fellow  is  a  saint  on  earth — a  holy  saint,  if  such 
things  ever  are.  I  know  what  crime  is.  I  can  find  guilt  in  a 
man's  eye,  let  it  be  buried  ever  ^o  deep ;  but  this  old  man  is  not 
guilty;  a  summer  mornigg  is  not  more  serene  than  his  face! 
Men  who  murder  from  malice  or  accident  do  not  sit  so  peace 
fully  in  their  cells,  with  that  sort  of  prayerful  tenderness  brood 
ing  over  the  countenance." 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  woman  ?  Who  is  this  old 
man  ?"  demanded  Ada,  sharply.  "  What  is  his  innocence  or 
his  guilt  to  me  ?" 

"  What  is  his  innocence  or  guilt  to  you  ?  Are  you  a 
woman  ? — have  you  a  heart  and  ask  that  question  ?  As  for 
me  I  might  ask  it — I  who  know  what  crime  is,  and  who  should 
feel  most  for  the  criminal !  But  you,  pampered  in  wealth, 
beautiful,  loving,  worshipped — who  never  had  even  a  tempta 
tion  to  sin — it  is  for  you  to  feel  for  a  man  unjustly  accused — • 
the  innocent  for  the  innocent,  the  guilty  for  the  guilty.  Sym 
pathy  should  run  thus,  if  it  does  not  !" 

"  This  is  an  outrage — mockery  !"  said  Ada  starting  from  her 
chair.  "  Who  sent  you  here,  woman  ? — how  dare  you  talk  to 
me  of  these  things  ? — I  know  nothing  of  the  old  man  you  are 
raving  about  ;  wish  to  know  less.  If  you  want  money,  say  so, 
but  do  not  talk  of  him,  of  crime,  of — of  murder  !" 

She  sunk  back  to  her  chair  again,  pale  and  breathing  heavily. 
Her  strange  visitor  stood  up,  evidently  surprised  by  a  degree 
of  agitation  that  seemed  to  her  without  adequate  cause. 

"So  the  rich  can  feel,"  she  said;  "  but  this  is  not  compassion. 
My  presence  annoys  you — the  close  mention  of  sin  makes  you 
Judder.  You  look,  yes,  you  do  look  like  that  angel  child  when 
I  first  laid  my  hand  upon  her  shoulder." 


358  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  What  child  ? — of  whom  do  you  speak  ?"  questioned  Ada, 
faintly,  for  the  woman  was  bending  over  her,  and  she  was  fasi- 
nated  by  the  power  of  those  wild  eyes. 

"  It  is  the  grandchild  of  that  old  man— the  old  murderer  they 
call  him — the  old  saint  I  call  him ;  it  is  his  grandchild  that 
your  look  reminded  me  of  a  moment  ago ;  it  is  gone,  now,  but  I 
shall  always  like  you  the  better  for  having  seemed  like  her 
only  for  a  minute  !" 

"  Her  name,  what  is  her  name  ?"  cried  Ada,  impelled  to  the 
question  by  some  intuitive  impulse,  tljat  she  neither  compre 
hended  nor  cared  to  conceal.  "What  is  the  child's  name,  I 
say  P 

"  Julia  Warren." 

"A  fair,  gentle  girl,  with  eyes  that  seems  to  crave  affec 
tion,  as  violets  open  their  leaves  for  the  dew  when  they  are 
thirsty;  a  frail,  delicate  little  thing,  toiling  under  a  burden  of 
flowers  I  I  have  seen  a  young  creature  like  this  more  than 
once.  She  haunts  me — her  name  itself  haunts  me — and  why, 
why! — she  is  nothing  to  me — I  am  nothing  to  her  ?" 

Ada  spoke  in  low  tones,  communing  with  herself  ;  and  the 
woman  looked  on,  wondering  at  the  words  as  they  dropped  so 
unconsciously  from  those  beautiful  lips. 

"It  is  the  same  girl,  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  the  woman,  at 
last.  "  She  had  no  flowers  when  I  saw  her  tottering  with  her 
poor  wet  eyes  into  the  prison;  but  her  face  might  have  been 
bathed  in  their  perfume,  it  was  so  full  of  sweetness.  It  was  so — 
so  holy  I  was  near  saying,  but  the  word  is  a  strange  one  for  me. 
Well,  madam,  this  young  girl  has  been  in  prison  with  me,  and 
the  like  of  me  I" 

"  She  must  come  out — she  shall  not  remain  there  an  hour  1" 
said  Ada,  searching  eagerly  among  the  folds  of  her  dress  for  a 
purse,  which  was  not  to  be  found.  "  It  is  not  here,  I  will  ring 
for  Jacob;  you  want  money  to  get  this  young  girl  out  of  prison; 
that  is  kind,  very  kind;  you  shall  have  it.  Oh,  heavens  !  the 
thought  suffocates  me — that  angel  child — that  beautiful  flower 
spirit  in  prison  !  Woman,  why  did  you  not  come  to  me  before  ?" 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  359 

"  I  was  m  prison  myself — the  officers  don't  let  us  out  so 
easily.  We  are  not  exactly  expected  to  make  calls  j  besides, 
how  should  I  know  anything  about  you,  except  as  one  of  those 
proud  women  who  gather  up  their  silken  garments  when  we  come 
near,  as  if  it  were  contagion  to  breathe  the  same  atmosphere 
with  us."  ^ 

"  But  how  is  it  that  you  have  come  to  me  at  last  ?" 

"  She  told  me  about  you  !" 

"  She  sent  you  to  me  then  ?"  questioned  Ada,  with  sparkling 
eyes  ;  "  bless  her,  she  sent  you  I" 

"No,  she  told  me  about  you.     I  came  of  my  own  accord." 

Ada's  countenance  fell  ;  she  was  silent  for  a  moment,  sub 
dued  by  a  strange  feeling  of  disappointment. 

"But  she  is  in  that  horrid  place  ;  no  matter  how  you  came  ; 
not  another  hour  must  she  stay  in  prison,  if  money  or  influenci 
can  release  her." 

"But  she  is  not  in  prison  now!77  said  the  woman. 

"  Not  in  prison! — how  is  this.  What  can  you  desire  of  me  if 
she  is  not  in  prison  ?" 

"  But  her  grandfather — the  good  old  man,  he  is  in  prison, 
helpless  as  a  babe — innocent  as  a  babe.  It  is  the  old  man  who 
is  in  prison." 

"  Why  am  I  tormented  with  this  old  man  ?  Do  not  mention 
him  to  me  again — his  crime  is  fearful;  Jam  not  the  one  to  sava 
him,  the  murderer  of — of '7 

"He  is  the  young  girl's  grandfather!" 

Ada  had  started  from  her  chair,  and  was  pacing  rapidly  up 
and  down  the  room,  her  arms  folded  tightly  under  the  loose 
sleeves  of  her  dressing-gown,  and  the  silken  tassels  swaying  to 
and  fro  with  the  impetuosity  of  her  movements.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  venomous  fascination  in  that  old  man's  name  that  stung 
her  whole  being  into  action.  She  had  not  comprehended  before 
that  it  was  connected  with  that  of  the  flower-girl ;  but  the  words 
"  he  is  the  young  girl's  grandfather,"  arrested  her  like  the  shaft 
from  a  bow.  Her  lips  grew  white,  she  stood  motionless  gazing 
almost  fiercely  upon  the  woman  who  had  uttered  these  words. 


360  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"That  girl  the  grandchild  of  Leicester's  murderer!"  she 
exclaimed.  "Why  the  very  flowers  I  tread  on  turn  to  serpents 
beneath  my  feet!" 

"  The  old  man  did  not  kill  this  Leicester,"  answered  the  woman, 
and  her  rude  face  grew  white  also;  "or  if  he  did,  it  was  but  as 
the  instrument  of  God's  vengeance  on  a  monster — a  hideous, 
vile  monster,  who  crawled  over  everything  good  in  his  way, 
crushing  it  as  he  went.  If  he  had  killed  him — if  I  believed  it, 
no  Catholic  saint  was  ever  idolized  as  I  would  worship  that  old 
man !" 

"  Woman,  what  had  Leicester  done  to  you  that  you  should 
thus  revile  him  in  his  grave  ?" 

A  cloud  of  inexplicable  passion  swept  over  the  woman's  face. 
She  drew  close  to  Ada,  and  as  she  answered,  her  breath,  fever 
ish  with  the  dregs  of  intoxication,  and  laden  with  words  that 
stung  like  reptiles,  sickened  the  wretched  woman  to  the  heart's 
core.  She  had  no  strength  to  check  the  fierce  torrent  that 
rushed  over  her;  but  folded  her  white  arms  closer  and  closer 
over  her  heart,  as  if  to  shield  it  somewhat  from  the  storm  of 
bitter  eloquence  her  question  had  provoked. 

"  What  has  Leicester  done  to  me  ?"  said  the  woman.  "  Look, 
look  at  me,  I  am  his  work  from  head  to  foot,  body  and  soul, 
all  of  his  fashioning!" 

"  How  ?     Did  you  love  him  also  ?" 

A  glow  of  fierce  disgust  broke  over  the  woman's  features, 
gleaming  in  her  eye  and  curling  her  lip. 

"  Love  him,  I  never  sunk  so  low  as  that;  he  scarcely  distur 
bed  the  froth  upon  my  heart,  the  wine  below  was  not  for  him. 
Had  I  loved  him,  he  might  have  been  content  with  my  ruin 
only;  as  it  was,  madam,  it  is  a  short  story,  very  short,  you 
shall  have  it — but  I'll  have  drink  after." 

"  Compose  yourself— do  not  be  so  violent,"  said  Ada,  shrink 
ing  from  the  storm  she  had  raised,  with  that  sensitiveness 
which  makes  the  wounded  bird  shield  its  bosom  from  a  threat 
ened  arrow,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  give  you  pain  !" 

"  Pain  !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  with  a  wild  sneer,  "  I  am 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  361 

beyond  that.  No  one  need  know  pain  while  the  drug-  stores 
are  open!  You  ask  what  Leicester  has  ever  done  to  me  You 
knew  him,  perhaps — no  matter,  you  are  not  the  first  woman 
whose  face  has  lost  its  color  at  the  sound  of  his  name  ;  but  he 
will  do  no  more  mischief,  the  blood  is  wrung  fj-om  his  heart 
now." 

Ada  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  holding  up  both  hands  with  the 
palms  outward,  as  if  warding  off  a  blow.  But  the  woman  had 
become  fierce  in  her  passion,  and  would  not  be  checked. 

"  You  ask  if  I  loved  him,  I,  who  worshipped  my  own  hus 
band,  my  noble,  beautiful,  young  husband,  with  a  worship 
strong  as  death,  holy  as  religion.  Leicester,  this  fiend,  who  is 
now  doing  a  fiend's  penance  in  torment — this  demon  was  my 
husband's  friend,  he  was  my  friend  too,  for  I  loved  everything 
that  brightened  the  eye,  or  brought  smiles  to  the  lip  of  my 
husband — a  husband  whom  I  worshipped  as  a  devotee  lavishes 
homage  on  a  saint — loved  as  a  woman  loves  when  her  whole 
life  is  centered  in  one  object.  I  was  never  good  like  him — but 
I  loved  him — I  loved  him  1  You  look  at  me  in  astonishment 
— you  cannot  understand  the  love  that  turns  to  such  fierce 
madness  when  it  is  but  a  past  thing — that  drugs  itself  with 
opium,  drowns  itself  in  brandy  !" 

Ada  answered  with  a  faint  sob,  and  her  eyes  grew  wild  as 
the  great  black  orbs  flashing  upon  her.  The  woman  saw  this, 
and  took  compassion  on  what  she  believed  to  be  purely  terror 
at  her  own  violence.  She  made  a  strong  effort  and  spoke 
more  calmly,  but  still  with  a  suppressed,  husky  voice  that  was 
like  the  hush  of  a  storm. 

"  We  were  poor,  madam,  I  kept  a  little  school  ;  my  hus 
band  was  a  clerk,  at  very  low  pay,  with  very  hard  labor.  It 
was  a  toilsome  life,  but  oh,  how  happy  we  were  !  I  don't  know 
where  James  first  saw  Mr.  Leicester,  but  they  came  home  to 
gether  one  evening,  and  I  remember  we  had  a  little  supper, 
with  wine,  and  some  game  that  Leicester  had  ordered  on  the 
way.  If  you  have  never  seen  that  man,  nothing  can  convey  to 
you  the  power,  the  fascination  of  his  presence.  Soft,  persua- 

16 


362  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

sive,  gentle  as  an  angel  in  seeming  ;  deep,  crafty,  cruel  us  a 
fiend  in  reality — if  you  had  a  foible  or  a  weakness,  lie  was  cer 
tain  to  detect  it  with  a  glance,  and  sure  to  use  it,  though  it 
might  be  to  your  own  destruction.  I  was  young,  vain,  new  to 
the  world,  and  not  altogether  without  beauty.  I  doubt  if  Lei 
cester  ever  saw  a  woman  without  calculating-  her  weaknesses, 
and  playing  upon  them  if  it  were  only  for  mere  amusement,  or 
in  the  wanton  test  of  his  own  diabolical  powers. 

"I  was  strong,  for  heart  and  soul  I  loved  my  husband;  he 
saw  this  and  it  provoked  his  pride ;  else  in  my  humility  I  might 
have  escaped  his  pursuit ;  but  I  was  vain,  capricious,  passionate. 
A  little  time  he  obtained  some  influence  ove**  me,  for  his  subtle 
flattery,  his  artful  play  upon  every  bad  feeling  of  my  nature  had 
its  effect.  But  the  woman  who  loves  one  iran  with  her  whote 
strength,  has  a  firm  anchorage.  My  vanity  was  gratified  b> 
this  man's  homage,  nothing  more — still  he  attained  all  that  he 
worked  for,  a  firmer  influence  over  my  husbard.  Had  I  been 
his  enemy  he.  could  not  have  wormed  himself  aronud  that  simple, 
honest  nature.  I  helped  him,  I  was  a  dupe,  a  tool,  used  for  tht« 
ruin  of  my  own  husband.  It  is  this  thought  that  bvandy  is  n*>t 
strong  enough  to  drown,  or  morphine  to  kill! 

"  He  was  our  benefactor — you  understand — without  himse*' 
directly  appearing  in  the  business,  except  to  us  upon  whom  h  j> 
agency  was  impressed;  a  place,  with  much  higher  salary,  wa* 
procured  for  my  husband.  We  were  very  grateful,  and  looked 
upon  Leicester  as  a  guardian  angel.  Yery  well — a  few  months 
went  on,  still  binding  us  closer  to  the  man  who  had  benefited 
us  so  much.  One  day  he  stood  by  my  husband's  desk.  It  wa« 
a  rich  firm  that  he  served,  and  James  had  charge  of  the  funds 
It  was  just  before  the  hour  of  deposit;  ten  thousand  dollars  lay 
beneath  the  bank-book.  Leicester  seemed  in  haste ;  he  had  need 
of  a  large  sum  of  money  that  day,  which  he  could  easily  replace 
in  the  morning,  five  thousand;  something  had  gone  wrong  in  hi? 
financial  matters,  and  he  proposed  that  James  should  lend  tha* 
sum  from  the  amount  before  him. 

"My  husband  hesitated,  and  at  length  refused.     Leicester 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  363 

did  not  urge  it,  but  went  away  apparently  grieved.  By  that 
time  it  was  too  late  for  the  bank,  and  James  brought  the  money 
home,  thinking  to  deposit  it  early  the  next  day.  Leicester 
came  in  while  we  were  at  dinner,  he  looked  sad  and  greatly 
distressed.  I  insisted  upon  knowing  the  cause,  and  at  last  he 
told  me  of  his  embarrassment,  dwelling  with  gentle  reproach  on 
the  refusal  of  my  husband  to  aid  him. 

"I  was  never  a  woman  of  firm  principle;  the  holiest  feeling 
known  to  me  was  the  love  I  bore  my  husband;  all  else  was 
passion,  impulse,  generous  or  unjust  as  circumstances  warranted. 
I  did  not  understand  the  rectitude  of  my  husband's  conduct. 
To  me  it  seemed  ingratitude;  my  influence  over  him  was  fatal. 
When  Leicester  left  the  house,  five  thousand  dollars — not  ours 
nor  his — went  with  him. 

"The  next  day  we  did  not  see  him.     My  poor  husband  grew 
nervous,  but  it  was  not  till  a  week  had  passed  that  I  could) 
force  myself  to  believe  that  the  money  would  not  be  promptly! 
repaid.     Then  James  inquired  for  Leicester  at  his  hotel.     He\ 
had  gone  south. 

"My  husband  had  embezzled  his  employers'  money.  He 
was  tried,  found  guilty,  sentenced  to  the  state  prison  for  seven 
years.  I — I  had  done  it!  When  he  went  up  to  Sing  Sing, 
linked  wrist  to  wrist  with  a  band  of  the  lowest  felons,  I  followed 
to  the  wharf,  and  my  little  boy,  his  child  and  mine,  only  a  few  » 
weeks  old,  lay  crying  against  my  bosom.  I  watched  the  boat 
through  the  burning  tears  that  seemed  to  scorch  my  eyes,  and 
when  it  was  lost,  I  turned  away  still  as  the  grave,  but  the  most 
desolate  wretch  that  ever  trod  the  earth.  Seven  years,  it  was 
an  eternity  to  mel  I  had  no  moral  strength — I  was  mad.  But 
his  child  was  there,  and  I  struggled  for  that!" 

The  woman  paused.  Her  voice,  full  of  rude  strength  belore, 
grew  soft  with  mournful  desolation. 

"I  went  often  to  see  him;  I  struggled  for  a  pardon,  it  was 
his  first  offence,  but  he  must  stay  a  year  or  two  in  prison ;  there 
was  no  hope  before  then — I  have  told  you  how  innocent  he  really 
was.  But  a  sense  of  shame,  the  hard  fare,  the  toil — he  drooped 


364  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

under  these  things!  Every  visit  I  found  him  thinner;  his  smile 
more  sad;  his  brow  more  pallid.  One  day  I  went  to  see  him 
with  the  child,  and  they  told  me  to  go  home,  for  my  husband 
was  dead. 

"I  went  home  quietly  as  a  lamb  that  has  been  numbed  by  the 
frost.  That  night  I  drank  laudanum,  intending  to  be  nearer 
my  husband  before  morning,  but  there  was  not  enough.  It 
threw  me  into  a  sleep,  profound  as  death,  except  that  I 
could  not  find  him  in  it.  The  potion  did  not  kill,  but  it  taught 
me  where  to  seek  for  relief,  how  to  chain  sleep.  It  was  my 
slave  then,  we  have  changed  places  since." 

Ada  sat  cowering  in  her  chair,  while  the  woman  went  on  with 
her  narrative.  It  seemed  as  if  she  herself  were  the  person  who 
had  inflicted  the  great  wrong  to  which  she  had  listened;  as  if 
the  fierce  anger,  the  just  reproaches  of  that  woman  were  levelled 
at  her  own  conscience. 

"What  atonement  can  be  made?  What  can  be  done  for 
you  ?"  she  faltered,  weaving  her  pale  fingers  together,  and  lifting 
her  eyes  beseechingly  to  the  woman's  face,  which  was  bent 
down  and  haggard  with  exhausted  anguish. 

"  What  atonement  can  be  made  ?"  cried  the  woman,  throw 
ing  back  her  head  till  the  crimson  hood  fell  half  away  from  her 
dark  tresses.  "  He  is  making  atonement  now — now — ha!  ha!" 

The  laugh  which  followed  this  speech  made  Ada  cower  as  if 
a  mortal  hand  had  fallen  upon  her  heart.  She  looked  piteously 
at  the  woman,  and  after  a  faint  struggle  to  speak,  fell  back  in 
her  chair  quite  insensible. 

This  utter  prostration — this  deathly  helplessness,  touched, 
the  still  living  heart  of  the  woman.  She  could  not  understand 
why  her  terrible  story  had  taken  such  effect  upon  a -person, 
lifted  as  it  seemed  so  far  above  all  sympathy  for  one  of  her 
wretched  cast;  but  she  was  a  woman,  had  suffered  and  could 
still  feel  for  the  sufferings  of  others.  A  gush  of  gentle  com 
passion  broke  up  through  the  blackness  and  rubbish  which  had 
almost  choked  up  the  pure  waters  of  her  heart,  humanising  her 
countenance,  and  awaking  her  womanhood  once  more. 


F  \SHION      AND      FAM'lNE.  365 

She  stole  into  the  bed-chamber,  and  taking  a  crystal  flask  full 
of  water  from  a  marble  slab,  dashed  a  portion  of  its  contents 
over  the  pale  face  still  lying  so  deathly  white  against  the  da 
mask  cushions. 

This,  however,  had  no  effect.  She  now  took  the  cold  hands 
in  hers,  chafing  them  tenderly,  removed  the  dainty  cap  and 
scattered  water-drops  over  the  pale  lips  and  forehead.  With  a 
degree  of  tact  that  no  one  would  have  expected  from  her,  she 
refrained  from  calling  the  household,  and  continued  her  own  ef 
forts  till  life  came  slowly  back  to  the  bosom  that  a  moment  be 
fore  seemed  as  marble. 

Ada  opened  her  eyes  heavily,  and  closed  them  again  with  a 
shudder,  when  she  saw  the  woman  bending  over  her. 

"  Go  I"  she  said,  still  pressing  her  long  eyelashes  together; 
"  leave  word  where  you  live,  and  I  will  send  you  money." 

"  For  the  old  man  ?" 

"No;  for  yourself,  not  for  his  murderer  ?" 

"I  did  not  ask  money  for  myself,"  answered  the  woman, 
sullenly.  "  If  you  give  it,  I  shall  pay  the  lawyers  to  save 
him  !" 

"  Then  go,  I  have  nothing  for  you  or  him — go,"  answered 
Ada,  faintly,  but  in  a  voice  that  admitted  no  dispute;  and, 
rising  from  her  chair,  she  went  into  the  bed-room  and  closed 
the  door. 

The  woman  looked  after  her  with  some  anger  and  more  as 
tonishment  ;  then  drawing  down  her  hood  she  tied  it  deliber 
ately,  and  strode  into  the  boudoir,  down  the  stairs,  and  so  out  of 
the  house,  without  deigning  to  notice  the  servants,  who  took 
no  pains  to  conceal  their  astonishment,  that  a  creature  of  her 
appearance  should  be  admitted  to  the  presence  of  their  mis 
tress. 


366  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE    TOMBS     LAWYER. 

As  reptiles  haunt  a  prison  wall, 

And  search  its  broken  cliffs  for  food  ; 
gome  human  beings  cringe  and  crawl 

For  daily  bread  where  sorrows  brood. 

MRS.  GRAY  found  more  difficulty  in  performing  her  benevo 
lent  intentions  with  regard  to  the  Warrens,  than  she  had  ever 
before  encountered.  Ignorant  as  a  child  of  all  legal  proceed 
ings,  she  found  no  aid  either  in  the  old  prisoner,  his  wife,  or  his 
grandchild,  who  were  more  uninformed  and  far  less  hopeful 
than  herself.  Her  brother  Jacob,  on  whom  she  had  depended 
for  aid  and  counsel,  much  to  her  surprise,  not  only  refused  to 
take  any  responsibility  in  her  kind  efforts,  but  looked  coldly 
upon  the  whole  affair. 

It  was  not  in  Jacob  Strong's  nature  to  shrink  from  a  kind 
action;  for  his  rude  exterior  covered  a  heart  true  and  warm  as 
ever  beat.  But  the  part  he  had  already  taken  in  those  events 
that  led  to  William  Leicester's  death  ;  the  almost  insane  fear 
that  haunted  his  mistress,  lest  the  murderer  should  escape  pun 
ishment  ;  the  taunts  that  had  wrung  his  strong  heart  to  the 
core,  but  which  she  had  so  ruthlessly  heaped  upon  him — all 
these  things  conspired  in  rendering  him  more  than  indifferent 
to  the  fate  of  a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  whom  he 
wished  to  find  guilty.  He  received  his  good  sister's  entreaties 
for  counsel,  therefore,  with  reproof,  and  a  stern  admonition  not 
to  meddle  with  affairs  beyond  her  knowledge. 

Thus  thrown  upon  her  own  resources,  the  good  woman,  by 
no  means  daunted,  resolved  to  conduct  the  affair  after  her  own 
fashion.  Robert,  it  is  true,  had  volunteered  to  aid  her,  and 
had  already  applied  to  an  eminent  lawyer  to  conduct  old  Mr. 
Warren's  defence  ;  but  the  retainer  demanded,  and  the  large 
sum  of  money  expected,  when  laid  before  the  good  huckster 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  367 

woman,  quite  horrified  her.  The  amount  seemed  enormous  to 
one  who  had  gathered  up  a  fortune  in  pennies  and  shillings. 
She  had  heard  of  the  extortions  of  legal  gentlemen,  of  their 
rapacity  and  heartlessness,  and  resolved  to  convince  them  that 
one  woman,  at  least,  had  her  wisdom  teeth  in  excellent  con 
dition. 

So  Mrs.  Gray  quietly  refused  all  aid  from  Robert,  and  went 
into  the  legal  market  as  she  would  have  boarded  a  North  River 
craft  laden  with  poultry  and  vegetables.  Many  a  grave  lawyer 
did  she  astonish  by  her  shrewd  efforts  to  strike  a  bargain  for 
the  amount  of  eloquence  necessary  to  save  her  old  friend. 
Again  and  again  did  her  double  chin  quiver  with  indignation 
At  the  hard-heartedness  and  rapacity  of  the  profession. 

Thus  time  wore  on;  the  day  of  trial  approached,  and,  with 
all  her  good  intentions,  Mrs.  Gray  had  only  done  a  great  deal 
of  talking,  which  by  no  means  promised  to  regenerate  the  legal 
profession,  and  the  prisoner  was  still  without  better  counsel 
than  herself. 

One  day  the  good  huckster  woman  was  passing  down  the 
steps  of  the  City  Prison — for  she  invariably  accompanied  Mrs 
Warren  to  her  husband's  cell  every  morning,  though  it  inter 
fered  greatly  with  her  harvest  hour  in  the  market — she  was 
slowly  descending  the  prison  steps,  as  I  have  said,  when  a  man 
whom  she  had  passed,  leaning  heavily  against  one  of  the  pillars 
in  the  vestibule,  followed  and  addressed  her. 

On  hearing  her  name  pronounced,  Mrs.  Gray  turned  and 
encountered  a  man,  perhaps  thirty-five  or  forty  years  of  age. 
with  handsome  but  unhealthy  features,  and  eyes  black  and 
keen,  that  seemed  capable  of  reading  your  soul  at  a  glance,  but 
too  weary  with  study  or  dissipation  for  the  effort. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  stranger,  lifting  his  hat  with 
a  degree  of  graceful  deference  that  quite  charmed  the  old  lady. 
"  I  believe  you  are  Mrs.  Gray,  the  benevolent  friend  of  that 
poor  man  lodged  up  yonder  on  a  charge  of  murder.  My  young 
man  informed  me  that  a  lady — it  must  have  been  you,  none 
other  could  have  so  beautifully  answered  the  description — had 


368  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

called  at  my  office  in  search  of  counsel.  I  regretted  so  much 
not  being  in.  This  is  a  peculiar  ease,  madam,  one  that  enlists 
all  the  sympathies.  You  look  surprised.  I  know  that  feeling 
is  not  usual  in  our  profession,  but  there  are  hearts,  madam — 
hearts  so  tender  originally,  that  they  resist  the  hard  grindstone 
of  the  law.  It  is  this  that  has  kept  me  poor,  when  my  brother 
lawyers  are  all  growing  rich  around  me." 

"  Sir,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray — her  face  all  in  a  glow  of  delight 
— reaching  forth  her  plump  hand,  with  which  she  shook  that  of 
her  new  acquaintance,  which  certainly  trembled  in  her  grasp, 
but  from  other  causes  than  the  sympathy  for  which  she  gave 
him  credit,  "  Sir,  I  am  happy  to  see  you — very  happy  to  find 
one  lawyer  that  has  a  heart.  I  don't  remember  calling  at  your 
office  without  finding  you  in,  though  I  certainly  have  found  a 
good  many  other  lawyers  out." 

Here  the  blessed  old  lady  gave  a  mellow  chuckle  over  what 
she  considered  a  marvellous  play  upon  words,  which  was  echoed 
by  the  lawyer,  who  held  one  hand  to  his  side,  as  if  absolutely 
compelled  thus  to  restrain  the  mirth  excited  by  her  facetiousness. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  lady,  let  us  to  business.  The  most  ex 
quisite  wit,  you  know  must  give  place  to  the  calls  of  humanity. 
My  young  man  informed  me  of  your  noble  intentions  with 
regard  to  this  unhappy  prisoner.  That  out  of  your  wealth  so 
honorably  won,  you  were  determined  to  wrest  justice  from  the 
law.  I  am  here  with  my  legal  armor  on,  ready  to  aid  in  the 
good  cause.  If  I  were  rich  now — if  I  had  not  exhausted  my 
life  in  attempting  to  aid  humanity,  nothing  would  give  me  so 
much  pleasure  as  to  go  hand-in-hand  with  you  to  his  rescue,  with 
out  money  and  without  price  ;  as  it  is,  my  dear  madam — as  it 
is,  'the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire.'" 

This  quotation  quite  won  the  already  vacillating  heart  of  poor 
Mrs.  Gray.  She  shook  ihe  lawyer's  thin  hand  again,  with  in 
creased  cordiality,  and  answered — 

"  True  enough — true  enough,  my  dear  sir.  I  declare  it  is 
refreshing  to  hear  Bible  words  in  the  mouth  of  a  lawyer.  It's 
what  I  didn't  expect." 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  369 

"  Ah,  madam/7  cried  the  lawyer,  drawing  a  white  handker 
chief  from  a  side  pocket,  and  returning  it  as  if  he  had  determined 
to  suppress  his  emotions  at  any  cost — "  ah,  madam,  do  not 
apply  a  general  rule  too  closely.  Our  profession  is  bad  enough, 
I  do  not  defend  it.  What  man  with  a  conscience  void  of  offence, 
could  make  the  attempt  ?  But  there  exist  exceptions — honor- 
orable  exceptions.  Permit  me  to  hope  that  your  clear  mind  can 
distinguish  between  the  sharper  and  the  man  who  sacrifices  the 
world's  goods  for  conscience's  sake.  Believe  me,  dear  lady, 
there  are  such  things  as  honest  lawyers,  as  pious  men  in  the 
profession." 

"  Well,  I  must  say  the  idea  never  struck  me  before,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Gray,  with  honest  simplicity. 

"  Permit  me  to  hope,  that  from  this  hour  you  will  no  longer 
doubt  it,"  answered  the  lawyer,  gently  passing  one  hand  over 
the  place  which  anatomists  allot  to  the  human  heart.  "  And 
now,  madam,  suppose  we  walk  to  my  office  and  settle  the  pre 
liminaries  of  our  engagement.  A  cool  head  and  warm  heart, 
that  is  what  you  want;  fortunately  such  things  may  be  found. 
Pray  allow  me  to  help  you;  the  steps  are  a  little  damp,  acci 
dents  frequently  happen  up  this  avenue  ;  my  office  is  close  at 
hand  ;  many  a  poor  unfortunate  has  learned  to  bless  the  way 
there — take  my  arm  1" 

Mrs.  Gray  hesitated ;  a  blush  swept  over  her  comely  cheek 
at  the  thought  of  walking  arm-in-arm  with  so  perfect  a  gentle 
man,  and  that  in  the  open  streets  of  New  York.  It  was  a 
thing  she  had  not  dreamed  of  since  the  death  of  poor  Mr. 
Gray,  But  there  was  a  lea'ven  of  feminine  vanity  still  left  in 
the  good  woman's  nature.  The  shrewd  swindler,  who  stood 
there  so  gracefully  presenting  his  arm,  had  not  altogether  mis 
calculated  the  effect  of  his  flattery,  and  he  clenched  it  adroitly, 
with  this  act  of  personal  attention. 

Mrs.  Gray  hesitated,  blushed,  drew  on  her  glove  a  little 
tighter,  and  then  placed  her  substantial  arm  through  the  com 
paratively  fragile  limb  of  the  lawyer,  softly,  as  if  she  quite 
appreciated  the  danger  of  bearing  him  down  with  her  weight 

16* 


370  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

Thus  the  blessed  old  woman  was  borne  along,  sweeping  half 
the  pavement  with  her  massive  person,  and  crowding  the 
poor  lawyer  unconsciously  out  to  the  curb-stone  every  other 
minute. 

He,  exemplary  man,  bore  it  all  with  gentle  complacency, 
cautioned  her  against  every  little  impediment  that  came  in  her 
way,  and  consoled  himself  for  the  somewhat  remarkable  figure 
he  made  in  the  eyes  of  the  police-officers  that  haunt  that  neigh 
borhood,  by  a  significant  twirl  of  his  disengaged  hand  in  the 
direction  of  his  own  face,  and  a  quick  drooping  of  the  left  eye 
lid,  by  which  they  all  understood  that  the  Tombs  lawyer  had 
brought  down  his  game  handsomely  that  morning. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  certainly  somewhat  disappointed  in  the  style 
of  the  lawyer's  office  into  which  she  was  ushered  with  so  much 
ceremony.  A  rusty  old  leathern  chair ;  a  table  with  the  green  baize 
half  worn  off,  with  a  bundle  or  two  of  dusty  papers  upon  it  ; 
a  standish  full  of  dry  ink,  and  a  steel  pen  rusted  down  to  the 
nib,  all  veiled  thickly  with  dust,  did  not  entirely  meet  her  ideas 
of  the  prosperous  business  she  had  anticipated.  The  lawyer 
saw  this,  and  hastened  to  sweep  away  all  unfavorable  impres 
sions  from  her  mind. 

"This  is  my  work-shop,  you  see,  madam,  the  tread-mill  in 
which  I  grind  out  my  humble  bread  and  my  blessed  charities — 
no  foppery,  no  carpets,  nothing  but  the  barest  necessaries  of 
the  profession.  I  leave  easy-chairs,  &c.,  for  those  who  have  the 
conscience  to  wring  them  from  needy  clients.  You  comprehend, 
dear  lady.  Oh!  it  is  pleasant  to  feel  that  now  and  then  in  this 
cold  world,  a  good  life  meets  with  appreciation.  John,  bring 
me  another  chair?" 

"My  young  man,"  whom  the  lawyer  had  mentioned  so  osten 
tatiously,  came  forward  ii;  the  shape  of  a  lank  Irish  lad,  taller 
than  his  master  by  three  inches,  which  might  be  accurately 
measured  by  the  space  visible  between  the  knee  of  his  nether 
garments  and  the  top  of  his  gaiter  boots.  The  closet  door,  from 
which  he  issued,  revealed  a  lurking  encampment  of  dusty  bottles, 
a  broken  washstaud,  and  two  enormous  demijohns,  the  wicker- 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  37 1 

rk  suspiciously  moist,  and  with  a  stopper  of  blue  glass  chained 
to  the  neck. 

The  lawyer  made  a  quiet  motion  with  his  hand,  which  sent 
the  Irish  boy  in  haste  to  close  the  door.  Then  taking  the 
unstable  chair  which  the  lad  had  disinterred  from  the  closet,  he 
sat  down  cautiously,  as  a  cat  steals  to  the  lap  of  her  mistress, 
whose  temper  is  somewhat  doubtful,  and  glided  into  the  business 
on  hand.  The  Irish  boy  stood  meekly  by,  profiting  by  the  scene 
with  a  knowing  look,  which  deepened  into  a  grin  of  delight  as 
he  saw  Mrs.  Gray  draw  forth  her  pocket-book,  and  place 
bank-notes  of  considerable  amount  into  the  lawyer's  hand.  When 
the  good  woman  had  thus  deposited  half  the  sum  which  the 
lawyer  assured  her  would  save  old  Mr.  Warren's  life,  she  arose 
with  a  sigh  of  profound  satisfaction,  shook  out  her  voluminous 
skirts,  and  left  the  office,  fully  satisfied  with  the  whole  transac 
tion. 

The  lawyer  and  "his  man"  followed  her  to  the  door.  When 
she  disappeared  down  the  street,  the  lawyer  turned  briskly, 
and  in  the  joy  of  his  heart  seized  the  Irish  boy  by  the  collar  that 
had  lately  graced  his  own  neck,  and  gave  him  a  vigorous 
shake. 

"  What  are  you  grinning  at,  you  dog  ?  How  dare  you  laugh 
at  my  clients?  There  now,  get  along;  take  that  and  fill  both 
the  demijohns;  buy  a  clean  pack  of  cards,  and  a  new  supply  of 
everything.  Do  you  hear?" 

The  Irish  boy  shook  himself  back  into  his  coat,  and  seizing 
the  money,  plunged  into  the  street,  resolved  not  to  return  a 
shilling  of  change  without  first  securing  the  month's  wages,  for 
which  his  master  was,  as  usual,  in  arrears. 

The  lawyer  threw  himself  into  the  leathern  chair  which  Mrs. 
Gray  had  just  left,  stretched  forth  his  limbs,  half  closed  his 
eyes,  and  rubbing  his  palms  softly  together,  sat  thus  full  ten 
minutes  caressing  himself,  and  chuckling  over  the  morning's 
business. 


372  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THE  LAWYER'S  VISIT  TO   HIS   CLIENT. 

I  am  his  wife  ;  full  forty  years 

This  head  -was  pillowed  on  his  breast ; 
I  shared  his  joy,  I  shared  his  tears, 

And  in  deep  sorrow  loved  him  best. 

Yes,  tempter,  I  am  still  his  wife ! 

I  hold  the  glory  of  his  name  ! 
To  purchase  liberty  or  life 

I  would  not  dim  its  light  with  shame ! 

IF  those  who  think  that  happiness  exists  only  in  those  ex 
ternal  circumstances  that  surround  a  man,  could  have  seen  old 
Mr.  Warren  in  his  prison,  they  would  have  been  astonished  at 
the  placidity  of  his  countenance,  at  the  calm  and  holy  atmos 
phere  that  had  made  his  cell  emphatically  a  home.  His  wife  and 
grandchild  haunted  it  with  their  love,  and  it  seemed  to  him — 
so  the  old  man  said — that  God  had  never  been  quite  so  near  to 
him  as  since  he  entered  these  gloomy  walls.  He  might  die; 
the  laws  might  sacrifice  him,  innocent  as  he  was;  but  should 
this  happen,  he  only  knew  that  God  permitted  it  for  some  wise 
purpose,  which  might  never  be  explained  till  the  sacrifice  was 
made. 

True,  life  was  sweet  to  the  old  man;  for  in  his  poverty  and 
his  trouble  two  souls  had  clung  to  him  with  a  degree  of  love 
that  would  have  made  existence  precious  to  any  one.  All  that 
earth  knows  of  heaven,  strong,  pure  affection  had  always  fol 
lowed  him.  It  is  only  when  the  soul  looks  back  upon  a  waste 
of  buried  affection,  a  maze  of  broken  ties,  that  it  thirsts  to  die. 
Resignation  is  known  to  every  good  Christian,  but  the  wild  de 
sire  which  makes  men  plunge  madly  toward  eternity,  comes  of 
exhausted  affections  and  an  insane  use  of  life.  Good  and  wise 
men  are  seldom  eager  for  death.  They  wait  for  it  with  still, 
solemn  faith  in  God,  whose  most  august  messenger  it  is. 

There  was  nothing  of  bravado  in  the  old  man's  heart ;  he 


FASHION     AND      FAMINE.  373 

made  no  theatrical  exhibition  of  the  solemn  faith  that  was  in 
him  ;  but  when  visitors  passed  the  open  door  of  his  cell — for, 
being  upon  the  third  corridor,  there  was  little  chance  of  escape 
• — and  saw  him  sitting  there  with  that  meek  old  woman  at  his 
feet,  and  an  open  Bible  on  his  lap,  a  huge,  worn  book  that  had 
been  his  father's,  they  paused  involuntarily,  with  that  intuitive 
homage  which  goodness  always  wins,  even  from  prejudice. 

A  few  comforts  had  been  added  to  his  prison  furniture ;  for 
Mrs.  Gray  was  always  bringing  some  cherished  thing  from  her 
household  stores.  A  breadth  of  carpet  lay  before  the  bed  ;  a 
swing  shelf  hung  against  the  wall,  upon  which  two  cups  and 
saucers  of  Mrs.  Gray's  most  antique  and  precious  china,  stood 
in  rich  relief ;  while  a  pot  of  roses  struggled  into  bloom  be 
neath  the  light  which  came  through  the  narrow  loop-hole  cut 
through  the  deep  outer  wall. 

Altogether  that  prison-cell  had  a  home-like  and  pleasant 
look.  The  old  man  believed  that  it  might  prove  the  gate  to 
death,  but  he  was  not  one  to  turn  gloomily  from  the  humble 
flowers  with  which  God  scattered  his  way  to  the  grave.  He 
lifted  his  eyes  gratefully  to  every  sunbeam  that  came  through 
the  wall ;  and  when  darkness  surrounded  him,  .and  that  blessed 
old  woman  was  forced  to  leave  him  alone,  he  would  sit  down 
upon  his  bed,  and  murmur  to  himself,  "  Oh!  it  is  well  God  can 
hear  in  the  dark!"  • 

Thus  as  I  have  said,  the  time  of  trial  drew  near.  The  pris 
oner  was  prepared  and  tranquil.  The  wife  and  grandchild 
were  convinced  of  his  innocence,  and  full  of  gentle  faith  that  the 
laws  could  never  put  a  guiltless  man  to  death.  Thus  they  par 
took  somewhat  of  his  own  heavenly  composure.  Mrs.  Gray 
was  always  ready  to  cheer  them  with  her  genial  hopefulness  ; 
and  Robert  Otis  was  prompt  at  all  times  with  such  aid  as  his 
youth,  his  strength,  and  his  fine,  generous  nature  enabled  him 
to  give. 

One  morning,  just  after  Mrs.  Gray  had  left  the  cell — for  she 
made  a  point  of  accompanying  the  timid  old  woman  to  the 
prison  of  her  husband — Mr.  Warren  was  disturbed  by  a  visitor 


374  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

that,  he  had  never  seen  before.  It  was  a  quiet  demure  sort  of 
personage,  clothed  in  black,  and  with  an  air  half-clerical,  half- 
dissipated,  that  mingled  rather  incongruously  upon  his  person. 
He  sat  down  by  the  prisoner,  as  a  hired  nurse  might  cajole  a 
child  into  taking  medicine,  and  after  uttering  a  soft  good  morn 
ing,  with  his  palm  laid  gently  on  the  withered  hand  of  the  old 
man,  he  took  a  survey  of  the  cell. 

Mrs.  Warren  stood  in  one  corner,  filling  the  old  china  cup 
from  which  her  husband  had  just  taken  his  breakfast,  with  wa 
ter  ;  two  or  three  flowers,  gathered  from  the  plants  in  Mrs 
Gray's  parlor  windows,  lay  on  the  little  table,  whose  gentle 
bloom  this  water  was  to  keep  fresh.  To  another  man  it  might 
have  been  pleasant  to  observe  with  what  care  this  old  woman 
arranged  the  tints,  and  turned  the  cup  that  its  brightest  side 
might  come  opposite  her  husband. 

But  the  lawyer  only  saw  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  reflected 
that  the  sex  might  always  be  found  useful  if  properly  managed. 
Instead  of  being  struck  by  the  womanly  sweetness  of  her  char 
acter,  and  the  affection  so  beautifully  proved  by  her  occupation, 
he  began  instantly  to  calculate  upon  the  uses  of  which  she  might 
be  capable. 

"  Rather  snug  box  this  that  they  have  got  you  in,  my  good 
friend,"  said  the  lawyer,  turning  his  eyes  with  a  sidelong  glance 
on  the  old  man's  face,  and  keeping  them  fixed  more  steadily  than 
was  usual  with  him,  for  it  was  seldom  a  face  like  this  met  his 
scrutiny  within  the  walls  of  a  prison.  "  Trust  that  we  shall 
get  you  out  soon.  Couldn't  be  in  better  hands,  that  fine  old 
friend  of  yours,  a  woman  in  a  thousand,  isn't  she  ? — confides 
you  to  my  legal  keeping  entirely  I" 

"  Did  Mrs.  Gray  send  you  ?  Are  you  the  gentleman  she 
spoke  to  about  my  case  ?"  inquired  the  old  man,  turning  his 
calm  eyes  upon  the  lawyer,  while  Mrs.  Warren  suspended  her 
occupation  and  crept  to  the  other  side  of  her  husband.  "  She 
wished  me  to  talk  with  you.  I  am  glad  you  have  come  !" 

"Well,  my  dear  old  friend,  permit  me  to  call  you  so — for  if 
the  lawyer  who  saves  the  man  from  the  gallows  isn't  his  friend, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  375 

I  should  like  to  know  who  is.     When  shall  we  have  a  little 
quiet  chat  together  ?" 

"  Now,  there  will  be  no  better  time  !" 

"But  this  lady  ;  in  such  cases  one  must  have  perfect  confi 
dence.  Would  she  have  the  goodness  just  to  step  out  while 
we  talk  a  little  ?" 

"  She  is  my  wife.  I  have  nothing  to  say  which  she  does  not 
know  1"  answered  the  old  man,  turning  an  affectionate  look 
upon  the  grateful  eyes  lifted  to  his  face. 
4"  Your  wife,  ha  1"  cried  the  lawyer,  rubbing  his  palms  softly 
together,  as  was  his  habit  when  a  gleam  of  villainy  more  exqui 
site  than  usual  dawned  upon  him.  "  Perhaps  not,  we  shall 
see  I  may  want  her  for  a  witness  !  but  we  can  tell  better  when 
the  case  is  laid  out.  Now  go  on ;  remember  that  your  law  • 
yer  is  your  physician;  must  have  all  the  symptoms  of  a  case,  all 
its  parts,  all  its  capabilities.  Now  just  consider  me  as  your 
conscience;  not  exactly  that,  because  one  sometimes  cheats  con 
science,  you  know — after  all  there  is  nothing  better — think  that 
I  am  your  lawyer — that  I  have  your  life  in  my  hands — that  I 
must  know  the  truth  in  order  to  save  it — cheat  conscience,  if 
you  like,  but  never  cheat  the  lawyer  who  tries  your  case,  or  the 
doctor  who  feels  your  pulse." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  conceal.  I  am  ready  to  tell  you  all," 
answered  the  old  man. 

The  calmness  with  which  this  was  said  took  the  lawyer  some 
what  aback.  He  had  expected  that  more  of  his  cajoling  elo 
quence  would  be  necessary,  before  his  client  would  be  won  to 
speak  frankly.  His  astonishment  was  greatly  increased,  there 
fore,  when  the  old  man  in  his  grave  and  truthful  way  related 
everything  connected  with  the  death  of  William  Leicester  ex 
actly  as  it  had  happened.  Nothing  could  be  more  discouraging 
than  this  narrative,  as  it  presented  itself  to  the  lawyer.  Had 
the  man  been  absolutely  guilty,  his  counsel  would  have  found 
far  less  difficulty  in  arranging  some  grounds  of  defence.  With 
out  some  opening  for  legal  chicanery  the  lawyer  felt  him 
self  lost.  Unprincipled  as  he  was,  there  still  existed  in  his 


376          FASHION   AND  FAMINE. 

mind  some  little  feeling  of  interest  in  any  case  he  undertook, 
independent  of  the  money  to  be  received.  He  loved  the  ex 
citement,  the  trickery,  the  maneuvering  of  a  desperate  de 
fence.  He  had  a  sort  of  fellow  feeling  for  the  clever  criminal 
that  sharpened  his  talent,  and  sent  him  into  court  with  the 
spirit  of  an  old  gambler. 

But  a  case  like  this  was  something  new.  He  did  not  for  a 
moment  doubt  the  old  man's  story;  there  was  truth  breathing  in 
every  word,  and  written  in  every  line  of  that  honest  coun 
tenance.  Indeed  it  was  this  very  conviction  that  dampened 
the  lawyer's  ardor  in  the  case.  It  seemed  completely  removed 
from  his  line  of  position.  He  had  so  long  solemnly  declared 
his  belief  in  the  innocence  of  men  whom  he  knew  to  be  steeped 
in  guilt,  that  he  felt  how  impossible  it  was  for  him  to  utter  the 
truth  before  a  jury  with  any  kind  of  gravity.  His  only  re 
source  was  to  make  this  plain,  solemn  case  as  much  like  a  false 
hood  as  possible. 

"  And  so  you  were  entirely  alone  in  the  room  ?" 

"  Entirely." 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head. 

"  You  have  no  witnesses  of  his  coming  in,  or  of  the  conversa 
tion,  except  this  old  lady  and  your  grandchild  ?" 

"None!" 

"  Your  neighbors,  how  were  you  situated  there  ?  Xo  kind 
fellow  in  the  next  casement  who  heard  a  noise,  and  peeped 
through  the  key-hole,  ha  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  up  gravely,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  lawyer  sharply,  for  he  was  nettled  by 
the  old  man's  look,  "  yours  is  a  desperate  case!" 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  was  the  gentle  reply. 

"A  desperate  case,  to  be  cured  only  with  desperate  mea 
sures.  Some  person  must  be  found  who  saw  this  man  strike 
the  blow  himself." 

"But  who  did  see  it,  save  God  and  myself?" 

"  Your*  wife  there,  she  must  have  seen  it.  The  door  was  not 
quite  closed;  she  was  curious — women  always  are;  she  looked 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  37* 

through,  saw  the  man  seize  the  knife;  you  tried  to  arrest  his 
hand;  he  was  a  strong  man;  you  old  and  feeble.  You  saw  all 
this,  madam!" 

The  old  woman  was  stooping  forward,  her  thin  fingers  had 
locked  themselves  together  while  the  lawyer  was  speaking,  and 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  dilating  like  those  of  a  bird  when 
the  serpent  begins  its  charm.  At  first  she  waved  her  head  very 
faintly,  thus  denying"that  she  had  witnessed  what  he  described; 
then  she  began  to  stoop  forward,  assenting,  as  it  were,  to  the 
force  and  energy  of  his  words,  almost  believing  that  she  had 
actually  looked  through  the  door  and  saw  all  that  the  lawyer 
asserted. 

"No,  she  did  not  see  all  this/'  answered  the  prisoner,  quietly; 
"  and  if  she  had,  how  would  it  be  of  use  ?" 

"You  did  see  it,  madam!"  persisted  the  lawyer,  without 
removing  his  eyes  from  the  old  woman's  face,  but  fascinating 
her,  as  it  were,  with  his  gaze — "you  did  see  it!" 

"I  don't  know.     I — I,  perhaps — yes,  I  think." 

"But  you  did  see  it;  your  husband's  life  depends  on  the 
fact.  Refresh  your  memory;  his  life,  remember — his  life!" 

"Yes — yes.     I — I  saw!" 

It  was  not  a  deliberate  falsehood ;  the  weak  mind  was  held 
and  moulded  by  a  strong  will.  For  the  moment  that  old  woman 
absolutely  believed  that  she  had  witnessed  the  scene,  which  had 
been  so  often  impressed  upon  her  fancy.  The  lawyer  saw  his 
power,  and  a  faint  smile  stole  over  his  lip,  half  undoing  the  work 
his  craft  had  accomplished.  The  old  woman  began  to  shrink 
slowly  back;  she  met  the  calm,  sorrowful  gaze  of  her  husband, 
and  her  eyes  fell  under  the  reproach  it  conveyed. 

The  lawyer  saw  all  this,  and  without  giving  her  time  to 
retract,  went  on. 

"  By  remembering  this  you  have  saved  his  life — saved  him 
from  the  gallows — his  name  from  dishonor — his  body  from  being 
mangled  at  the  medical  college." 

The  old  woman  wove  her  wrinkled  fingers  together ;  the  ker 
chief  on  her  bosom  quivered  with  the  struggle  of  her  breath. 


378  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"I  saw  it — I  saw  it  all!"  she  cried,  lifting  up  her  clasped 
hands  and  dropping  them  heavily  on  her  lap.  "  God  forgive 
me,  I  saw  it  all  1" 

"Wife!"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  voice  so  solemn  that  it  made 
even  the  lawyer  shrink.  "Wife!" 

She  did  not  answer;  her  head  dropped  upon  her  bosom;  those 
old  hands  unlocked  and  fell  apart  in  her  lap,  but  she  muttered 
still,  "God  forgive  me,  I  saw  it  all!" 

It  was  a  falsehood  now,  and  as  she  uttered  it  the  poor  crea 
ture  shrunk  guiltily  from  her  husband's  side,  and  attempted  to 
steal  out  of  the  cell. 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  lawyer,  beginning  to  kindle  up  in 
his  unholy  work.  "  Another  thing  is  to  be  settled,  and  then 
you  have  the  proud  honor,  the  glorious  reflection  that  it  is  to 
you  this  good,  this  innocent  man  owes  his  life.  How  long  have 
you  been  married  ?" 

The  old  woman  looked  at  a  gold  ring  on  her  finger,  worn  al 
most  to  a  thread,  and  answered — 

"  It  is  near  on  forty  years." 

"  Where  ?" 

The  old  woman  looked  at  her  husband,  but  his  eyes  were  bent 
sorrowfully  downward,  giving  her  neither  encouragement  or  re 
proach,  so  she  answered  with  some  hesitation — 

"  We  were  married  Down  East,  in  Maine,  !" 

"  So  much  the  better.    Is  the  marriage  registered  anywhere  ?" 

"I  don't  know  !" 

"  The  witnesses,  where  are  they  ?" 

"  All  dead  !" 

The  lawyer  rubbed  his  hands  with  still  greater  energy. 

"  Yery  good,  very  good  indeed  ;  nothing  could  be  better  ! 
Just  tell  me,  could  you  prove  the  thing  yourselves  ?" 

"  Prove  what  ?"  said  Mrs.  Warren,  half  in  terror,  while  the 
prisoner  remained  motionless,  paralyzed,  as  it  seemed,  by  the 
weakness  of  his  wife. 

"Prove? — why,  that  you  were  ever  married.  The  truth  is, 
madam,  you  could  not  have  been  married  to  the  prisoner — never 


F       d  -K  I    .•  N      AND      FAMINE.  379 

where  the  thirv,  iy  impossible.     It  spoils  you  for  a  witness — do 
you  understand  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  woman — "no,  how  should  I?  What 
does  it  mean  ?" 

"Mean  ? — you  are  not  his  wife  !" 

"  Not  his  wife — not  his  wife  !  Why,  didn't  I  tell  you  we  had 
lived  together  above  forty  years  ?" 

"  Certainly;  no  objection  to  that,  a  beautiful  reproof  to  the 
slander  that  there  is  no  constancy  in  woman.  Still  you  are 
not  his  wife — remember  that !" 

"But  I  am  his  wife.  Look  up,  husband,  and  tell  him  if  I 
am  not  your  own  lawfully  married  wife." 

"Madam,"  said  the  lawyer,  in  a  voice  that  he  intended 
should  reach  her  heart.  "In  order  to  save  this  man's  life  you 
must  learn  to  forget  as  well  as  to  remember.  You  saw  Leice» 
ter  kill  himself,  that  is  settled.  I  shall  place  you  on  the  stand 
to  prove  the  fact — a  fact  which  saves  your  husband  from  the 
gallows.  His  wife  would  not  be  permitted  to  give  this  evidence ; 
the  laws  forbid  it — therefore  you  are  not  his  wife.  They  can 
not  prove  that  you  are  ;  probably  you  could  not  easily  prove  it 
yourself.  I  assert,  and  will  maintain  it,  no  marriage  ever  ex 
isted  between  you  and  the  prisoner." 

"But  we  have  lived  together  forty  years ;  more  than  forty 
years!"  cried  the  old  woman,  and  a  blush  crept  slowly  over  her 
wrinkled  features  till  it  was  lost  in  the  soft  grey  of  her  hair. 
"  What  am  I  then  ?" 

"  What  matters  a  name  at  your  time  of  life.  Besides,  the 
moment  he  is  clear  you  may  prove  your  marriage  before  all  the 
courts  in  America  for  aught  I  care  ;  they  can't  put  him  on  trial 
a  second  time." 

"  And  you  wish  me  to  deny  that  we  are  married — to  say  that 
I  am  not  his  wife." 

The  old  woman,  so  weak,  so  frail,  grew  absolutely  stern  as 
she  spoke  ;  the  blush  fled  from  her  face,  leaving  it  almost  sub 
lime.  The  lawyer  even,  felt  the  moral  force  of  that  look,  and 
said,  half  in  apology — 


330  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"  It  is  the  only  way  to  save  his  life  !" 

"  Then  let  him  die;  I  could  bear  it  better  than  to  say  he  is  not 
my  husband — I  not  his  wife."  She  sunk  to  the  floor  as  she 
spoke,  and  bowing  her  forehead  to  the  old  man's  knee,  sobbed 
out,  "  Oh,  husband — husband,  say  that  I  am  right  now — did 
you  hear — did  you  hear  ?" 

The  old  man  sat  upright.  A  holy  glow  came  over  his  face, 
and  his  lips  parted  with  a  smile  that  was  heavenly  in  its  sweet' 
ness.  He  raised  the  feeble  woman  from  his  feet,  and  putting 
the  grey  hair  gently  back  from  her  forehead,  kissed  it  with 
tender  reverence.  Then,  holding  her  head  to  his  bosom,  he 
turned  to  the  lawyer.  "You  may  be  satisfied,  she  does  not 
think  her  husband's  poor  life  worth  that  price,"  he  said.  "Now 
leave  us  together." 

The  lawyer  went  out  rebuked  and  crest-fallen,  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  passed  from  one  flight  of  steps  to  another,  "Well, 
let  the  stubborn  old  fellow  hang,  it  will  do  him  good  ;  the  pret 
tiest  case  I  ever  laid  out  spoiled  for  an  old  woman's  fancy.  It" 
was  badly  managed,  I  should  have  taken  her  alone !  I  verily 
believe  the  old  wretch  is  innocent,  but  they  will  hang  him  high 
as  Haman,  if  the  woman  persists." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE     TRIAL      FOR      MURDER. 

It  is  a  wrong  and  monstrous  thing, 

That  from  youtfg  hearts  where  love  is  deep. 
Justice  hers  elf  the  words  should  sing 

That  sends  a  kindred  soul  to  sleep. 

day  of  trial  carrfe  at  last.  Such  cases  are  frequent  in 
New  York,  and,  unless  there  is  something  in  the  position  or 
history  of  the  criminal  to  excite  public  attention,  they  pass  oft' 
almost  unnoticed.  Still  there  is  not  a  single  case  that  does  not 
sweep  with  it  the  very  heart-strings  of  some  person  or  family, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  381 

linked  either  to  the  prisoner  or  his  victim  ;  there  is  not  one 
that  does  not  wring  tears  from  some  eyes  and  groans  from 
some  innocent  bosom.  We  read  a  brief  record  of  these  things; 
we  learn  that  a  murderer  has  been  tried,  convicted,  sentenced  ; 
we  shudder  and  turn  away  without  being  half  conscious  that 
the  history  thus  briefly  recorded  embraces  persons  innocent  as 
ourselves,  who  must  endure  more  than  the  tortures  of  death  for 
the  sin  that  one  man  is  doomed  to  expiate. 

Old  Mrs.  Warren  and  her  grand-daughter  stood  at  the  prison 
doors  early  that  morning.  It  was  before  the  hour  when  visitors 
could  be  admitted,  but  they  wandered  up  and  down  in  sight  of 
the  entrance  with  that  feverish  unrest  to  which  keen  anxiety 
subjects  one.  All  was  busy  life  about  the  neighborhood.  It 
was  nothing  to  the  multitude  that  passed  up  and  down  the 
steps,  that  a  fellow  being  was  that  morning  to  be  placed  on 
trial  for  his  life.  A  few  remembered  it,  but  with  the  exception 
of  old  Mrs.  Gray  and  her  nephew,  it  passed  heavily  upon  the 
"heart  of  no  living  being  save  those  two  helpless  females. 

How  strange  all  this  seemed  to  them!  With  every  thought 
and  feeling  occupied,  they  looked  upon  the  indifferent  throng 
with  a  pang;  the  smiling  faces,  the  bustle,  the  cheerfulness,  all 
seemed  mocking  the  heaviness  of  their  own  hearts. 

The  hour  came  at  last,  and  they  entered  the  prison.  Old 
Mr.  Warren  received  them  affectionately  as  usual;  he  exhibited 
no  anxiety,  and  seemed  even  more  cheerful  than  he  had  been 
for  some  days.  The  Bible  lay  open  upon  the  bed,  and  there 
was  an  indentation  near  the  pillow,  as  if  his  arms  had  rested 
heavily  there  while  reading  upon  his  knees. 

He  spent  more  than  an  hour  conversing  gently  with  his  wife 
and  grand-daughter,  striving  to  give  them  consolation  rather  than 
hope ;  for,  from  the  first,  he  had  believed  and  expressed  a  belief 
that  the  trial  would  go  against  him.  With  no  faith  in  his 
counsel,  and  no  evidence  to  sustain  his  innocence,  how  could 
he  doubt  it  ?  Perhaps  this  very  conviction  created  that  holy 
composure,  which  seemed  so  remarkable  in  a  man  just  to  be 
placed  on  a  trial  of  life  and  death. 


382  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

When  the  officers  came  to  conduct  him  to  the  City  Haft  he 
followed  them  calmly,  solemnly,  as  a  good  man  might  have  ^onc 
up  to  a  place  of  worship.  It  was  a  bright,  frosty  morning-,  anc1 
he  had  been  some  weeks  in  prison.  Still  his  heart  must  have 
been  wonderfully  at  ease  when  the  clear  air,  and  the  busy  lift 
around  could  thus  kindle  up  his  eye  and  irradiate  his  face.  A 
crowd  gathered  around  the  prison  to  see  the  old  murderer  conu 
forth,  but  the  people  were  disappointed.  Instead  of  a  fierce 
haggard  being,  wild  with  the  terrors  of  his  situation,  ready  te 
dart  away  through  any  opening  like  a  wild  animal  from  it* 
keepers,  they  saw  only  a  meek  old  man,  neatly  clad,  and  walking 
quietly  between  the  officers  with  neither  the  bravado  or  the 
abject  humility  of  guilt.  The  fresh  air  did  him  good;  you  could 
see  that  in  his  face,  and  so  grateful  was  he  for  this  little 
blessing,  that  he  almost  forgot  the  gaze  and  wonder  of  the 
crowd. 

"  This  is  very  beautiful,"  he  observed  to  one  of  the  officers, 
and  the  man  stared  to  see  how  simple  and  unaffected  was  this* 
expression  of  enjoyment.  "  Had  I  never  been  in  prison,  how 
could  I  have  relished  a  morning  like  this  ?" 

"  You  expect  to  be  acquitted  ?"  answered  the  man,  unable 
to  account  for  this  strange  composure  in  any  other  way. 

"  No,"  replied  the  old  man,  a  little  sadly — "  no,  I  think  they 
will  find  me  guilty — I  am  almost  sure  they  will  1" 

"You  take  it  calmly,  upon  my  honor — very  calmly!"  ex 
claimed  the  man.  "  Have  you  made  up  your  mind,  then,  to 
plead  guilty  at  once  ?" 

"No,  that  would  be  false — they  must  do  it — I  will  not  help 
them.  All  in  my  power  I  must  do  to  prevent  the  crime  they 
will  commit  in  condemning  me.  Not  to  do  that  would  be 
suicide!" 

There  was  something  in  this  reply  that  struck  the  officer 
more  than  a  thousand  protestations  could  have  done.  Indeed 
the  entire  bearing  of  his  charge  surprised  him  not  a  little. 
Seldom  had  he  conducted  a  man  to  trial  that  walked  with  so 
firm  a  step,  or  spoke  so  calmly. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  383 

"  Have  you  no  dread  of  the  sentence — no  fear  of  dying,  that 
you  speak  so  quietly  ?" 

The  old  man  turned  his  head  and  looked  back.  Two  females 
were  following  him  a  little  way  off.  They  had  gone  across  the 
street  to  avoid  the  crowd  of  men  and  boys  that  hung  like  a 
pack  of  hounds  about  the  prisoner,  but  were  gazing  after  him 
with  anxious  faces,  that  touched  even  the  officer  with  pity,  as 
his  glance  fell  upon  them.  The  old  man  saw  where  his  eyes 
rested,  and  answered  very  mournfully — 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  dread  of  the  sentence.  It  will  reach  them  ! 
Besides,  it  is  a  solemn  thing  to  die — a  very  solemn  thing  to 
know  that  at  a  certain  hour  you  will  stand  face  to  face  with 
God  I" 

"  Still,  I  dare  say,  you  would  meet  death  like  a  hero!" 

"  When  death  comes,  I  will  try  and  meet  it  like  a  Christian," 
was  the  mild  answer. 

As  the  old  man  spoke,  they  were  crossing  Chambers  street 
to  a  corner  of  the  Park,  but  their  progress  was  checked  by  a 
carriage,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  superb  horses,  and  mounted  by 
two  footmen  in  livery,  that  dashed  by,  scattering  th.e  crowd  in 
every  direction. 

Mrs.  Warren  and  her  grand-daughter  were  on  the  opposite 
side,  and  had  just  left  Centre  street  to  cross  over.  Julia 
uttered  a  faint  scream,  and  attempted  to  draw  her  grandmother 
back,  for  the  horses  were  dashing  close  upon  them,  and  the  old 
woman  stood  as  if  paralyzed  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  She 
did  not  move ;  the  horses  plunged  by,  and  the  wheels  made  her 
garments  flutter  with  the  air  they  scattered  in  passing.  The 
old  woman  uttered  a  cry  as  the  carriage  disappeared,  and  ran 
forward  a  step  or  two,  as  if  impelled  by  some  wild  impulse  to 
follow  it ;  Julia  darted  forward  and  caught  hold  of  her  arm. 

"  Grandmother,  grandmother,  where  are  you  going?  What 
is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Did  you  see  that  ?"  said  the  old  woman. 

"  What,  grandmother  ?" 

"  That  face — the  lady  in  the  carriage.    Did  you  see  it  ?" 


384  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

"No,  grandmother;  I  was  looking  at  you.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  horses  would  trample  you  down." 

The  old  woman  listened,  evidently  without  comprehending. 
Her  eyes  were  wild,  and  her  manner  energetic. 

"  Where  is  your  grandfather  ? — I  must  tell  him.  It  was  her 
face!" 

"  Whose  face,  grandmother  ?" 

"  Whose!  Why,  did  you  not  see ?"  The  old  woman  seemed 
all  at  once  to  recollect  herself.  "  But  how  should  you  know — 
you,  my  poor  child,  who  never  had  a  mother?" 

"  Oh!  grandmother,  has  trouble  driven  you  wild?"  cried  the 
poor  girl,  struck  with  new  terror,  for  there" was  something  al 
most  insane  in  the  woman's  look. 

"  Xo,  I  am  not  wild ;  but  it  was  her — see  how  I  tremble. 
Could  anything  else  make  me  tremble  so  ?" 

"  I  have  been  trembling  all  the  morning,"  said  Julia. 

"True  enough,  but  not  deep  in  the  heart — not — oh!  where 
is  your  grandfather  ?  They  have  taken  him  off  while  we  are 
standing  here.  Come,  child,  come — how  could  we  lose  sight 
of  him  ?" 

They  hurried  into  the  Park,  and  across  to  the  City  Hall, 
which  they  reached  in  time  to  secure  a  single  glance  of  the 
prisoner  as  he  was  conducted  up  the  staircase,  still  followed  by 
the  rabble. 

The  court-room  became  crowded  immediately  after  the  pris 
oner  was  led  in,  and  it  was  with  considerable  difficulty  that  an 
officer  forced  a  passage  for  the  unhappy  pair  to  the  seats  re 
served  for  witnesses.  Mrs.  Gray  was  already  in  court,  a  little 
more  serious  than  usual,  but  still  so  confident  of  her  protege's 
innocence,  and  filled  with  such  reverence  for  the  infallibility  of 
the  law,  that  she  had  almost  religious  faith  in  his  acquittal. 
She  smiled  cheeringly  when  Mrs.  Warren  and  Julia  came  up, 
and  her  black  silk  gown  rustled  again  as  she  moved  her  pon 
derous  person  that  they  might  find  room  near  her.  Mrs.  War 
ren  was  a  good  deal  excited.  She  even  made  an  effort  to  reach 
her  husl  and,  as  they  were  conducting  him  through  the  court, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  385 

| 

but  the  crowd  was  too  dense,  and,  spite  of  herself,  she  was 
borne  forward  to  the  witnesses'  seats,  without  obtaining  an 
opportunity  to  whisper  a  word  of  what  was  passing  in  her 
heart.  The  judges  were  upon  the  bench ;  the  lawyers  took 
their  places,  and  all  the  preliminaries  of  an  important  trial 
commenced.  The  prisoner  remained  calm  as  he  had  been  all 
the  morning,  but  there  was  nothing  stupid  or  indifferent  in  his 
manner.  When  informed  of  his  right  of  challenge  to  the  jury, 
he  examined  each  man  as  he  came  up;  with  a  searching  glance, 
and  two  or  three  times  gave  a  peremptory  challenge.  He  lis 
tened  with  interest  to  the  questions  put  by  the  court,  and  sunk 
back 'in  his  seat,  breathing  deeply,  as  if  an  important  duty 
was  over, -when  the  jury  was  at  length  empannelled. 

The  district  attorney  opened  his  case  with  great  ability.  He 
was  a  keen,  eloquent  man,  who  pursued  his  course  against  any 
person  unfortunate  enough  to  be  placed  before  him,  with  the 
relentless  zeal  of  a  bloodhound,  yielding  nothing  to  compas 
sion,  feeling  no  weakness,  and  forgiving  none.  His  duty  was 
to  convict — his  reputation  might  be  lessened  or  enhanced  by  the 
decision  of  a  jury — that  thought  was  ever  in  his  mind — he  was 
struggling  for  position,  for  forensic  fame.  The  jury  before 
him  was  to  add  a  leaf  to  his  yet  green  laurels,  or  tear  one 
away.  What  was  a  human  life  in  the  balance  with  this 
thought  ? 

To  have  watched  this  man  one  might  have  supposed  that  the 
feeble  old  prisoner,  who  sat  so  meekly  beneath  the  fiery  flash  of 
his  eyes,  and  the  keen  scourge  of  his  eloquence,  had  been  his 
bitterest  enemy.  Even  in  opening  the  case,  where  little  of  elo 
quence  is  expected,  he  could  not  forbear  many  a  sharp  taunt 
and  cruel  invective  against  the  old  man,  who  met  it  all  with  a 
sort  of  rebuking  calmness,  that  might  have  shamed  the  dastardly 
eloquence  which  was  in  no  way  necessary  to  justice. 

You  should  have  seen  dear  Mrs.  Gray,  as  the  lawyer  went 
on.  No  winter  apple  ever  glowed  more  ruddily  than  her  cheek ; 
no  star  ever  flashed  more  brightly  than  her  fine  eyes.  The 
folds  of  her  silken  dress  rustled  with  the  indignation  that  kept 

17 


386  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

her  in  constant  motion;  and  she  would  bend  first  to  old  Mrs. 
Warren,  and  then  to  Julia,  whispering — • 

"  Never  mind,  dears- — never  mind  his  impudence  !  Our  law 
yer  will  have  a  chance  soon,  then  won't  that  fellow  catch 
it  !  Don't  mind  what  he  says;  i+'s  his  business;  the  State  pays 
for  it— more  shame  for  the  people.  Our  man  will  be  on  hi? 
feet  soon.  I  ain't  the  State  of  New  York,  but  then  he's  got  a 
fee  that  ought  to  sharpen  his  tongue,  and  expects  more  when 
it's  over.  Only  let  him  give  that  fellow  his  own  again  with  in 
terest — compound  interest — and  if  I  donrt  throw  in  an  extra 
ten  dollars,  my  name  isn't  Sarah  Gray.  Oh,  if  I  could  but  give 
him  a  piece  of  my  mind  now  !  There,  there,  Mrs.  Warren, 
don't  look  so  white  t  it's  only  talk.  They  won't  conjict  him — 
it's  only  talk  !" 

Mrs.  Gray  was  drawn  from  this  good-natured  attempt  to 
cheer  her  friends  by  the  proceedings  of  the  court,  that  each  mo 
ment  became  more  and  more  impressive. 

The  prosecution  brought  forth  its  witnesses,  those  who  had 
appeared  in  the  preliminary  trial,  with  many  others  hunted  out 
by  the  indefatigable  attorney.  Never  was  a  chain  of  evidence 
more  complete — never  did  guilt  appear  so  hideous  or  more 
firmly  established.  Every  witness,  as  he  descended  from  the 
stand,  seemed  to  have  thrown  a  darker  stain  of  guilt  upon  that 
old  man.  The  sharp  cross-examinations  of  the  prisoner's  coun 
sel,  only  elucidated  some  new  point  against  him.  His  acute 
wit  and  keen  questioning  brought  nothing  to  light  that  did  not 
operate  against  the  cause — a  better  man  might  have  been  ex 
cused  for  abandoning  his  case  in  despair. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  anything  could  overthrow  all  this 
weight  of  evidence;  even  the  desperate  plea  of  insanity  would 
be  of  no  avail.  No  one  could  look  on  the  solemn,  and  yet 
serene  face  of  that  old  man,  without  giving  him  credit  for  a 
steadiness  of  mind  that  no  legal  eloquence  could  distort. 

Among  the  last  witnesses  brought  up  was  Julia  Warren. 
Her  determination  not  to  give  evidence,  which  had  just  escaped 
legal  censure  on  the  examination,  had  been  reasoned  away  by  her 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  387 

grandfather  who,  believing,  himself  that  the  laws  should  be 
obeyed  in  all  things,  leaving  the  result  with  God,  had  succeeded 
in  convincing  the  mind  of  this  young  girl  that  her  duty  was 
obedience.  She  arose,  therefore,  when  summoned  to  the  stand, 
turned  her  eyes  upon  her  grandfather,  as  if  to  gather  courage 
from  his  strength,  and  moved  forward  tremulously,  it  is  true, 
but  with  more  fortitude  than  might  have  been  expected  in  a 
creature  so  young  and  so  delicately  sensitive. 

With  her  usual  good  sense,  Mrs.  Gray  had  taken  care  that 
her  protege  should  be  neatly  dressed,  but  spite  of  the  little 
cottage  bonnet  with  its  rose-colored  lining,  that  face  was  color 
less  as  a  snow-drop. 

A  thrill  of  sympathy  passed  through  the  crowd,  as  this  young 
girl  stood  up  in  the  public  gaze.  She  was  known  as  the  grand 
child  of  the  accused,  and  to  possess  knowledge  that  could  but 
deepen  the  charges  against  him.  This  of  itself  was  enough  to 
enlist  the  generous  impulses  of  a  people,  more  keenly  alive  than 
any  on  earth,  to  the  claims  and  dependencies  of  womanhood. 
But  the  shrinking  modesty  of  her  demeanor — the  exquisite 
purity  of  her  loveliness — her  youth,  the  innate  refinement  that 
breathed  about  her  like  an  atmosphere,  all  conspired  to  make 
her  an  object  of  generous  pity.  There  was  not  a  face  present, 
even  to  the  officers,  that  did  not  exhibit  some  sign  of  this  feel 
ing  when  the  first  view  of  her  features  was  obtained.  The 
face  in  which  this  tender  compassion  beamed  most  eloquently 
was  that  of  the  old  prisoner.  For  the  first  time  that  day  tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  but  when  her  glance  was  turned  upon  him  with 
a  look  that  pleaded  for  strength  and  for  pardon,  eloquently  as 
eyes  ever  pleaded  to  a  human  soul,  the  grandfather  answered 
it  with  a  smile  that  kindled  up  her  pale  face,  as  if  an  angel  had 
passed  by,  which  no  one  had  the  power  to  see,  save  her  and  the 
old  man. 

She  touched  her  lips  to  the  sacred  volume,  and  turned  with 
a  look  of  angelic  obedience  toward  the  judges.  When  the  pro 
secuting  attorney  commenced  his  examination,  she  answered  his 
questions  with  a  degree  of  modest  dignity  that  checked  any  de- 


388  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

sire  he  might  have  felt  to  excite  or  annoy  her  with  useless  in 
terrogations.  Nothing  could  be  more  absorbing  than  the  at 
tention  paid  to  every  word  that  dropped  from  her  lips.  She 
spoke  low,  and  faltered  a  little  now  and  then  ;  but  the  tones  of 
her  voice  were  so  sadly  sweet,  the  tears  seemed  so  close  to  her 
eyes  without  reaching  them,  that  even  the  judges  and  the  jury 
leaned  forward  to  catch  those  tones,  rather  than  break  them  by 
a  request  that  she  should  speak  louder. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

THE      TWO     WITNESSES. 

Woman,  thy  haughty  pride  shall  fall — 

Thy  very  soul  shall  quake  and  quail. 
Those  words  are  weaving  shroud  and  pall, 

And  truth  itself  may  not  avail. 
To  save  the  life  thy  sin  has  taken — 

To  save  thy  father's  whitened  head — 
Thy  soul  to  its  proud  depth  is  shaken — 

Say,  canst  thou  raise  him  from  the  dead 

I  WILL  not  give  Julia's  entire  evidence  as  she  uttered  it  in 
detail,  because  most  of  my  readers  know  already  the  events 
which  she  had  to  relate  ;  I  have  attempted  no  melodramatic 
effect  by  an  effort  at  mystery.  The  truth  which  that  court 
could  not  know,  is  already  made  manifest  to  those  who  have 
followed  my  story  up  to  this  point.  When  questioned  if  she 
had  known  the  deceased,  Julia  answered  that  she  had  seen  him 
three  times  in  her  life.  Once  upon  a  wharf  near  the  Battery, 
where  she  had  wandered  with  flowers  and  fruit,  which  she 
wished  to  sell.  He  then  purchased  a  few  of  her  flowers,  and 
presented  them  to  a  lady  who  had  left  a  southern  vessel  with 
him  but  a  few  moments  before.  She  described  how  he  had 
driven  away  with  the  lady  at  his  side,  and  said  at  that  time 
she  never  expected  to  have  seen  him  again 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  389 

"  But  you  did  see  him  again,"  said  the  examining  counsel. 
"  Tell  us  where  and  how  ?" 

"  It  was  in  October,  the  evening  before  he — before  he  died. 
I  was  going  up  town  with  some  flowers,  which  a  lady  had  or 
dered  for  a  ball  she  gave  that  night.  It  was  rather  late  when 
I  started  from  Dunlapjs,  and  I  walked  fast,  fearing  to  lose  my 
way  after  dark.  This  man  saw  me  as  I  was  passing  a  house 
with  a  flower-garden  in  front,  and  a  pretty  fountain  throwing 
up  water  among  the  dahlias  and  chrysanthemums  ;  I  was  out  of 
breath,  and  walked  a  little  slower  just  then,  for  the  water- 
drops  as  they  fell  were  like  music,  and  everything  around  was 
so  lovely  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  walk  fast.  I 
did  not  stop;  but  Mr.  Leicester  saw  me  and  wanted  me  to  sell 
my  flowers.  I  told  him  no;  but  he  would  have  them,  and  al 
most  pushed  me,  basket  and  all,  through  the  gate  and  into  the 
house." 

"  Well,  what  passed  in  the  house  ?" 

"He  took  me  up  stairs  into  a  chamber,  and  there  I  saw  the 
same  lady  that  was  with  him  on  the  wharf,  alone,  and  dressing 
herself  in  some  beautiful  clothes  that  lay  about.  She  asked 
me  to  help  her,  and  I  did.  She  took  some  of  my  flowers  for 
her  hair  and  her  dress.  I  was  in  a  great  hurry,,  and  wished  to 
go,  but  she  begged  me  to  stay  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  I 
could  not  refuse.  After  she  was  dressed,  we  went  down  stairs, 
and  this  lady  was  married  to  Mr.  Leicester  in  a  room  below. 
The  wedding  seemed  like  a  fuueral ;  the  lady  cried  all  the  time, 
and  so  did  I. 

"  When  it  was  all  over  they  let  me  go,  and  I  carried  the  rest 
of  my  flowers  to  the  lady  who  had  ordered  them.  It  was  get 
ting  late  when  I  went  back;  I  lost  my  way;  a  gentleman  stood 
looking  into  a  window  at  the  corner  of  some  street;  I  asked 
him  to  tell  me  the  way  home  without  looking  in  his  face;  he 
turned.  It  was  Mr.  Leicester;  he  would  go  home  with  me;  I 
did  not  like  it,  and  would  rather  have  been  lost  in  the  streets  all 
night;  but  all  that  I  could  say  against  it  did  no  good.  He 
followed  me  home,  down  the  basement  steps,  and  to  the  door  of 


*U)0  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

grandfather's  room.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room;  and  while 
grandpa  was  kindling  a  match,  Mr.  Leicester  went  away.  I 
do  not  know  how,  but  when  the  candle  was  lighted  I  looked 
round  for  him,  and  he  was  gone!" 

"Did  you  tell  your  grandfather  that  he  had  followed  you?" 

"Yes,  I  always  tell  grandfather  everything!" 

"So  you  told  him  that  this  man  had  followed  you  home 
against  your  will  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  told  him." 

"  Was  he  angry  ?" 

"  My  grandfather  never  is  angry!" 

"  But  what  did  he  say  ?" 

"  Nothing  particular.  He  kept  his  arm  around  me  a  good 
while,  I  remember,  as  I  was  warming  myself,  and  seemed  to  feel 
sorrowful  about  something.  He  asked  several  questions  about 
the  man,  how  he  looked,  and  what  he  said." 

"  And  was  that  all  he  said  or  did  ?" 

"No.  He  prayed  for  me  that  night  before  we  went  to  bed 
more  earnestly  than  I  had  ever  heard  him  before.  I  remember, 
he  asked  God  to  protect  me  from  harm,  and  said  that  he  wa? 
old,  so  old  that  he  was  of  no  use,  and  well  stricken  in  years. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  heard  him  say  this,  but  that  night 
I  remember  well,  for  it  made  me  cry!" 

"  When  was  the  next  time  you  saw  Mr.  Leicester  ?" 

Julia  grew  pale  as  she  replied  to  this  question,  and  her  voice 
became  so  faint  that  she  could  scarcely  be  heard. 

"  I  saw  him  the  next  morning!" 

"  At  what  hour  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  exactly;  but  we  had  just  done  breakfast 
when  he  came  into  the  basement  where  we  lived,  and  attempted 
to  speak  with  my  grandfather!" 

"  Did  your  grandfather  loiow  him  ?  Did  he  call  Mr.  Leices 
ter  by  name  ?" 

"  lie  did  not  call  him  by  name;  but  I  think  they  must  have 
V  own  each  other!" 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  1" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  391 

Because  grandfather  turned  so  pale  and  looked  so  dread 
fully;  I  never  saw  him  look  so  before." 

"  Well,  what  passed  after  he  came  inT" 

"  I  don't  know;  he  sent  us  both  out  of-  the  room,  grandma 
and  me." 

"  Where  did  you  go  ?" 

"  Into  the  entry;  we  had  no  other  place!" 

"  Did  you  hear  nothing  after  ?" 

"•Yes,  the  sound  of  voices,  but  no  words;  then  Mr.  Leicester 
rushed  through  the  door,  and  out  to  the  area;  we  Thought  lie 
was  gone,  but  in  a  minute  he  came  back  and  went  into  the 
basement  again;  we  heal'd  no  words  after  that,  but  a  heavy 
fall.  We  went  in,  Mr.  Leicester  lay  on  the  floor;  grandpa  was 
close  by;  there  was  blood  about:  but  I  do  not  know  anything 
else,  my  head  grew  dizzy;  I  remember  clinging  to  grandmother 
that  I  might  not  fail" 

"  And  this  is  all  you  know  T' 

"  Yes,  it  is  all!" 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  effect  this  young  girl's  evidence 
produced  upon  the  court.  She  did  not  weep  or  blush  as  most 
girls  of  her  age  might  have  done.  The  feelings  that  gave  her 
voice  those  tones  of  thrilling  sadness,  the  subdued  pain  so  visi 
ble  in  her  sweet  countenance,  we$£  all  too  strong  and  deep  for 
these  more  common  manifestations.  You  saw  that  this  young 
creature  was  performing  a  solemn  duty,  when  she  stood  up  there 
to  testify  against  the  being  whom  she  loved  better  than  anything 
on  earth — that  the  single  hour  which  she  occupied  on  the  stand 
would  leave  behind  it  such  memories  as  weigh  upon  the  heart 
forever. 

Julia^descended  from  the  gaze  of  ttiat  crowd,  older  at  heart 
by  ten  years  than  ordinary  events  would  have  left  her.  Great 
suffering  brings  painful  precocity  with  it.  It  takes  but  a  few 
moments  to  harden  iron  into  steel;  but  the  fire  is  hot,  and  the 
blows  hard  which  accomplish  the  transformation. 

The  defence  refused  all  cross-examination,  and  Julia  was  told 
that  she  might  leave  the  stand.  As  the  permission  was  given, 


392  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

she  lifted  her  heavy  eyes  and  turned  them  once  more  upon  her 
grandfather.  Oh,  what  a  world  of  anguish  lay  in  that  look.-* 
The  old  man  answered  it  with  another  smile.  She  saw  it  but 
dimly,  for  her  eyes  were  filling  with  tears,  but  i^s  sad  sweetness 
made  her  faint.  She  tottered  back  to  the  seat  by  her  grand 
mother,  leaned  her  head  against  the  wall,  and  without  a  sigh  or  a 
motion  became  as  insensible  as  the  wall  itself. 

It  was  strange,  but  the  evidence  of  this  young  girl,  strongly 
as  it  bore  against  the  prisoner  in  fact,  created  a  feeling  in  his 
favor  with  the  jury,  and  disposed  the  crowd  to  more  charitable 
thoughts  of  the  old  man  who  could  make  himself  so  beloved 
by  a  creature  like  that.  As  for  Mrs.  Gray,  she  absolutely  sob 
bed  till  the  chair  shook  under  her,  all  the  time  that  Julia  was 
speaking.  But  the  grandmother  sat  motionless,  only  turning 
her  eyes  slowly  from-  her  husband  to  the  jury,  and  from  them  to 
the  judges,  striving,  poor  creature,  to  gather  some  ray  of  hope 
from  their  faces. 

It  was  a  strong  proof  of  the  influence  which  the  truthfulness 
of  this  young  creature  had  upon  the  court,  that  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  legal  informality  permitted  in  the  examination. 
She  had  been  allowed  to  tell  her  story  after  her  own  gentle 
fashion,  without  undue  interference  from  the  lawyers  ;  and  for 
a  little  time  after  she  left  -the  stand,  there  was  profound  si 
lence  in  the  crowd,  as  if  no  one  could  break,  even  by  a  whisper, 
the  impressions  which  her  evidence  had  left. 

This  silence  was  broken  by  the  prisoner,  who  arose,  all  at 
once,  and  attempted  to  move  toward  his  grand-daughter. 
While  all  others'  were  absorbed,  he  had  seen  her  head  droop 
against  the  wall,  the  heavy  lids  settle  like  snow-flakes  over  her 
eyes,  and  the  color  quenched  around  her  mouth.  Tlie  sight 
was  too  much  for  him,  and  he  started  up,  as  I  have  described, 
but  only  to  feel  the  officer's  gripe  upon  his  arm. 

"  See,  see,  you  have  killed  her,'7  said  the  old  man,  pointing 
with  his  finger  to  the  insensible  girl.  "  Let  me  go  to  her,  I 
say — one  minute — only  a  minute  I  No  one  else  can  bring  her 
to  life  i" 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  393 

The  officer  attempted  to  resist  the  old  man. 

"  Sit  down — sit  down,"  he  said,  "  it  disburbs  the  court.  She 
shall  have  care,  only  be  quiet." 

The  prisoner  resisted  this  friendly  violence,  and  struggled 
against  the  man  with  all  his  feeble  strength. 

"  She  is  dead  ;  I  tell  you  it  has  killed  her,  poor  thing  ! 
Poor  darling,  she  is  dead !"  he  repeated,  and  tears  rolled 
heavily  down  his  face.  4I  Will  no  one  see  if  she  is  quite,  quite 
gone  ?" 

As  if  in  answer  to  this  pathetic  cry  for  aid,  a  young  man 
forced  his  way  up  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  where  he  had 
stood  all  day  regarding  every  stage  of  the  trial  with  the  keen 
est  interest,  and  taking  Julia  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to  an  open 
window. 

"  Give  me  water,"  he  said  to  the  officer;  "  there  is  some  be 
fore  the  judge;"  then  turning  toward  Mrs.  Gray,  who,  occupied 
by  the  prisoner,  had  been  quite  insensible  to  Julia's  situation, 
he  said,  abruptly,  "  Have  you  no  hartshorn  ? — nothing  about 
you,  aunt,  that  will  be  of  use  ?" 

"  Dear  me,  yes,"  answered  the  good  lady,  producing  a  vial 
of  camphor  from  the  depths  of  her  pocket,  "  I  thought  some 
thing  of  the  kind  might  happen  ;  here  is  the  water  too  ;  there, 
her  eyelids  begin  to  move." 

"  She  is  better — she  will  soon  be  well,"  said  Robert  Otis, 
turning  his  face  toward  the  prisoner,  who  stood  up  in  the 
midst  of  the  court,  looking  after  his  grandchild,  with  eyes  that 
might  have  touched  a  heart  of  stone. 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you !"  said  the  old  man ;  and  without 
another  word,  he  sat  down,  covered  his  face  with  both  hands, 
and  wept  like  a  child. 

After  a  little,  Julia  was  led  back  to  her  seat,  and  Robert 
Otis  withdrew  into  the  crowd  again.  Another  witness  was 
examined  and  dismissed.  Then  there  came  a  pause  in  the  pro 
ceedings.  The  witnesses'  stand  was  for  a  time  unoccupied. 
The  district  attorney  sat  restlessly  on  his  chair,  casting  anxious 
glances  toward  the  door,  as  if  waiting  for  some  person  impor- 

17* 


394  FASHION      AND      FAMINE 

taut  to  his  cause.  The  judge  was  just  bending  forward  to  de 
sire  the  proceedings  to  go  on,  when  a  slight  bustle  near  the 
door  caused  a  movement  through  the  whole  crowd.  Those 
persons  near  the  entrance  were  pressed  back  against  their 
neighbors  by  two  officers  in  authority,  who  thus  made  a  lane 
up  to  the  witnesses'  stand,  through  which  a  lady  passed,  with 
rapid  footsteps,  and  evidently  much  excited  by  the  position  in 
which  she  found  herself. 

A  whisper  of  surprise,  not  unmingled  with  admiration,  ran 
through  the  crowd,  as  this  lady  took  her  place  upon  the  stand. 
She  hesitated  an  instant,  then,  with  a  graceful  motion,  swept 
the  veil  of  heavy  lace  back  upon  her  bonnet,  and  turned  to 
ward  the  judges.  The  face  thus  exposed  had  something  far 
more  striking  in  it  than  beauty.  It  was  a  haughty  face,  full 
of  determination,  and  with  a  calmness  upon  the  features  that 
was  too  rigid  not  to  have  been  forced.  Notwithstanding  this, 
you  could  see  that  the  woman  trembled  in  every  limb,  as  she 
bared  her  features  to  the  crowd. 

It  was  not  the  bashful  tremor  which  might  have  brought 
crimson  to  the  brow  of  any  female,  while  so  many  eyes  were 
bent  upon  her,  but  a  strong  nervous  excitement,  which  lifted 
her  above  all  these  considerations.  The  contrast  of  a  black 
velvet  dress  flowing  to  her  feet,  and  fitted  high  at  the  throat, 
might  have  added  somewhat  to  the  singular  effect  produced  by 
a  face  at  once  so  stern  and  so  beautiful.  Certain  it  is,  that  a 
thrill  of  that  respect  which  strong  feeling  always  carries  with 
it,  passed  through  the  crowd ;  and  though  she  was  strikingly 
lovely,  people  forgot  that,  in  sympathy  for  the  emotions  that 
she  suppressed  with  such  fortitude.  The  rapidity  with  which 
she  had  entered  the  court,  and  the  position  which  she  took  on 
the  stand,  prevented  a  full  vjew  of  her  face  to  Mrs.  Warren  and 
Julia;  but  as  she  turned  slowly  toward  them,  in  throwing  back 
her  veil,  the  effect  upon  these  two  persons  was  startling 
enough. 

The  old  woman  half  rose  from  her  chair,  her  lips  moved,  as 
if  a  smothered  cry  had  died  upon  them,  and  she  sat  down  again, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  395 

grasping  a  fold  of  Mrs.  Gray's  gown  in  her  hands.  It  was  the 
face  she  had  seen  in  the  carriage  that  morning. 

Julia  also  recognized  the  lady,  with  a  start  It  was  the 
woman  who  had  purchased  flowers  of  her  so  often,  who  had 
been  so  invariably  kind,  and  whose  fate  had  been  strongly 
blended  with  her  own  since  the  first  day  when  she  had  pur 
chased  violets  from  her  flower  basket. 

There  was  something  startling  to  the  young  girl  in  this  sud 
den  apparition  of  a  person  who  had  been  to  her  almost  like  fate 
itself.  At  that  solemn  moment  she  drew  her  breath  heavily, 
and  listened  with  painful  attention  for  the  first  words  that 
might  fall  upon  the  court.  Mrs.  Gray  also  was  filled  with 
astonishment,  for  she  saw  her  own  brother,  Jacob  Strong,  enter 
the  court,  walking  close  behind  the  lady,  until  she  mounted  the 
stand,  with  the  air  and  manner  of  an  attendant.  When  the 
lady  took  her  position,  he  drew  back  toward  the  door,  and 
stood  motionless,  gazing  anxiously  upon  her  face,  without  turn 
ing  his  eyes  aside  even  for  an  instant.  It  was  in  vain  Mrs. 
Gray  motioned  with  her  hand  that  he  should  approach  her;  all 
his  senses  seemed  swallowed  up  by  keen  interest  in  the  lady. 
He  had  no  existence  for  the  time  but  in  her. 

Of  all  the  persons  in  that  court-room,  there  was  not  one  who 
did  not  exhibit  some  unusual  interest  in  the  woman  placed  so 
unexpectedly  upon  the  witnesses'  stand,  except  the  prisoner 
himself.  He  had  been,  during  some  moments,  sitting  with  his 
forehead  bent  .upon  his  clasped  hands,  lost  in  thought,  or,  it 
might  be,  in  silent  prayer  to  the  God  who  had,  as  it  seemed, 
almost  abandoned  him.  He  did  not  look  up  when  the  lady 
entered,  and  not  till  the  examination  had  proceeded  to  some 
considerable  length,  was  he  aware  of  her  presence. 

It  was  worthy  of  remark,  that  the  prosecuting  attorney 
addressed  this  witness  with  a  degree  of  respect  which  he  had 
extended  to  no  other  person.  His  voice,  hitherto  so  sharp  and 
biting,  took  a  subdued  tone.  His  manner  became  deferential, 
and  the  opening  questions,  in  which  he  was  usually  abrupt,  al 
most  to  rudeness,  were  now  rather  insinuated  than  demanded. 


396     '  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

He  waived -the  usual  preliminaries  regarding  tne  age  and  name 
of  the  witness,  and  even  apologized  for  the  necessity  which  had 
compelled  him  to  bring  her  before  the  court. 

The  lady  listened  to  all  this  with  a  little  impatience ;  she  was 
evidently  in  no  state  of  mind  for  commonplace  gallantries,  and 
seemed  relieved  when  he  commenced  those  direct  questions 
which  were  to  place  her  evidence  before  the  court. 

"  Mrs.  Gordon,  that  is  your  name,  I  believe  1" 

The  lady  bent  her  head. 

"  Did  you  know  Mr.  William  Leicester  when  he  was 
living  ?" 

A  faint  tremor  passed  over  the  lady's  lips,  but  she  answered 
clearly,  though  in  a  very  subdued  voice — 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  !" 

11  He  visited  at  your  house  sometimes  1n 

"  Yes  !" 

"  When  did  you  see  him  last  ?" 

"On  the "  Her  voice  became  almost  inaudible  as  she 

uttered  the  date ;  but  the  lawyer  had  keen  ears,  and  forbore  to 
ask  a  repetition  of  the  words,  for  her  face  changed  suddenly, 
and  it  seemed  with  a  violent  effort  that  she  was  able  to  go 
on. 

"At  what  hour  did  he  leave  your  house  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  the  exact  hour  !" 

"  Was  it  late  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  gave  a  ball  that  night,  and  my  guests  generally 
remained  late  !" 

"  Did  you  observe  anything  peculiar  in  his  manner  that 
night  ?  Did  he  act  like  a  man  that  was  likely  to  commit  sui 
cide  in  the  morning  ?" 

It  was  half  a  minute  before  the  lady  gave  any  reply  to  this 
question;  then  she  spoke  with  an  effort,  as  if  some  nervous  affec 
tion  were  almost  choking  her. 

"  I  cannot  judge — I  do  not  know.  It  is  a  strange  question 
to  ask  me  I" 

"  I  regret  its  necessity  !"  said  the  attorney,  with  a  defereii- 


Iwr 

FASHION      AND      FAM  ift  E^v          '     "" '  397 "  ' 


tial  bend  of  the  head;  "  our  object  is,"  he  added; 
judge,  "to  show  by  this  witness,  how  the  deceased^wa 
pied  during  the  night  before  his  murder.  I  believe  it  is  the  inten 
tion  of  the  defence  to  claim  that  William  Leicester  killed 
himself  ;  that  it  was  a  case  of  suicide  instead  of  the  foul  murder 
we  will  prove  it  to  have  been.  I  wish  to  show  by  this  lady  that  he  " 
was  a  guest  in  her  mansion  up  to  a  late  hour;  that  he  joined  in 
the  festivities  of  a  ball,  and  was  among  the  most  cheerful  revel 
lers  present.  I  must  repeat  the  question,  madam — did  you  re 
mark  anything  singular  in  his  manner — anything  to  distinguish 
him  from  other  guests  ?" 

The  lady  parted  her  lips,  struggled,  and  answered — 

"  No,  I  saw  nothing  !"  She  lifted  her  eyes  after  this,  as  if 
impelled  by  some  magnetic  power,  and  met  those  of  the  tall, 
gaunt  man,  who  had  followed  her  into  court.  His  look  of 
sorrowful  reproach  seemed  to  sting  her,  and  she  spoke  again, 
louder  and  more  resolutely.  "  'There  was  nothing  in  the  words 
or  acts  of  William  Leicester,  that  night,  which  warranted  an 
idea  of  suicide — nothing  !" 

A  faint  sound,  not  quite  a  groan,  but  deeper  than  a  sigh,  broke 
from  Jacob  Strong  ;  and  he  shrunk  back  into  the  crowd,  with 
his  head  drooping  like  some  animal  stricken  with  an  arrow,  and 
anxious  to  hide  the  wound.  That  moment,  as  if  actuated  by 
one  of  those  impulses  that  seem  like  the  strides  of  fate  toward 
an  object,  the  district  attorney  said,  as  it  seemed  in  the  very 
wantonness  of  his  professional  privilege, 

"  Look  at  the  prisoner,  madam.  Did  you  ever  see  him 
before  ?" 

The  lady  turned  partly  round  and  looked  toward  the  prison 
er's  seat.  The  old  man  had  his  head  bowed,  for  the  sight  of 
his  insensible  grandchild  had  left  him  strengthless,  and  she  could 
only  distinguish  the  soft  wave  of  grey  hairs  around  his  temples, 
and  the  stoop  of  a  figure  venerable  from  age. 

"  Stand  up,"  commanded  the  judge,  addressing  the  old  man; 
"stand  up  that  the  witness  may  look  upon  your  face!" 

The  old  man  arose  and  stood  upright.     His  eyes  were  lifted 


398  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

slowly,  and  met  those  of  the  woman,  which  were  filled  with  cold 
abhorrence  of  the  being  she  was  forced  to  look  upon.  I  cannot 
describe  those  two  faces  as  their  eyes  were  riveted  upon  each 
other  ;  both  were  instantly  pale  as  death.  After  a  moment, 
in  which  something  of  doubt  mingled  with  its  corpse-like  pallor, 
that  of  the  woman  took  an  expression  of  almost  terrible  affright. 
Her  pale  lips  quivered;  her  eyes  distended  with  wild  brilliancy. 
She  lifted  one  hand  that  shook  like  an  aspen,  and  swept  it 
across  her  eyes  once,  twice,  as  if  to  clear  their  vision.  She 
did  not  attempt  to  speak;  the  sight  of  that  old  man  chilled  her 
through  and  through,  body  and  soul.  She  seemed  freezing  into 
marble. 

The  change  that  came  upon  the  prisoner  was  not  less  remark 
able.  At  first  there  settled  upon  his  face  a  look  of  the  most 
painful  astonishment.  It  deepened,  changed,  and  as  snow 
becomes  luminous  when  the  sunshine  strikes  it,  the  very  pallor 
of  his  features  brightened.  Afrection,  tenderness,  the  most,  thril 
ling  gratitude  beamed  through  their  whiteness,  and  while  her  gaze 
was  fascinated  by  his,  he  stretched  forth  his  arms.  This  scene 
was  so  strange,  the  agitation  of  these  persons  so  unaccountable, 
that  it  held  the  whole  court  breathless.  You  might  have  heard 
an  insect  stir  in  any  part  of  that  vast  room.  It  seemed  with 
every  breath  as  if  some  cry  must  burst  from  the  old  man — as 
if  the  lady  would  sink  to  the  earth,  dead,  so  terrible  was  her 
agitation.  But  the  prisoner  only  stretched  forth  his  arms,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  this  slight  motion  restored  the  lady  to  herself. 
Her  face  hardened;  she  turned  away,  withdrawing  her  gaze 
slowly,  as  if  the  effort  cost  her  a  mortal  pang.  Then  she 
answered, 

"  No,  I  do  not  recognize  him  !" 

Her  lips  were  like  majble,  and  her  voice  so  husky  that  it 
made  the  hearers  shrink,  but  every  word  was  clearly  enunciated. 

The  old  man  fell  back  to  his  seat  ;  his  arms  dropped  heavily 
down  ;  he  too  seemed  frozen  into  stone. 

For  a  moment  the  witness  stood  mute  and  still  ;  then  she 
started  all  at  once,  turned  and  descended  into  the  crowd. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  399 

Mrs.  Warren,  whom  no  one  had  observed  during  this  scene, 
arose  from  her  seat  as  the  lady  passed,  and  followed  her.  The 
crowd  closed  around  them,  but  the  old  woman  struggled 
through,  and  laid  a  trembling  grasp  upon  the  velvet  dress  that 
floated  before  her  like  the  waves  of  a  pall.  The  lady  turned 
her  white  face  sharply  round,  and  it  came  close  to  that  of  the 
old  woman.  A  convulsion  stirred  her  features  ;  she  lifted  her 
arm  as  if  to  fling  it  around  that  frail  form,  then  dashed  it  down, 
tearing  her  dress  from  that  feeble  grasp,  and  walked  steadily 
out  of  the  court. 


CHAPTER   XXXY. 

THE     VERDICT. 
Tread  lightly  here — let  outraged  justice  weep ! 

THERE  had  been  a  severe  change  in  the  weather  since  morn 
ing.  The  pure  frosty  air,  that  invigorated  everything  it 
touched,  hardened  toward  night,  into  one  of  those  cold  storms — 
half  snow,  half  ice — that  chill  you  to  the  vitals.  A  coating  of 
this  sleety  snow  lay  upon  the  Park,  icing  the  trees  with  crys 
tal,  and  bending  every  twig  as  with  a  fruitage  of  pearls.  The 
stone  pavement  and  the  City  Hall  steps  were  carpeted  an  inch 
deep  by  the  storm ;  and  the  hail  crackled  sharply  under  foot  if 
any  one  attempted  to  pass  over  them.  In  short,  it  was  one  of 
those  nights  when  everything  living  seeks  shelter,  and  no  human 
being  is  seen  abroad,  save  those  given  up  to  wild  desolation, 
either  of  body  or  mind. 

Miserable  and  stormy  as  the  night  was,  two  persons  had  been 
wandering  in  it  for  hours,  sometimes  lost  in  the  blackness  of  the 
storm,  sometimes  gliding  by  the  lamps  that  seemed  struggling 
to  keep  themselves  alive — and  again  stealing  up  the  curving 


400  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

staircase  within  the  City  Hall,  ghost-like  and  shadowy,  only  to 
come  forth  in  the  tempest  and  wander  as  before. 

In  the  darkness,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  judge  of  the 
sex  or  condition  of  those  persons.  Both  were  muffled  in  gar 
ments  black  as  the  clouds  that  hung  over  them.  Both  were 
tall,  and,  sometimes  as  they  walked,  the  outlines  of  their  per 
sons  blended  together,  till  they  seemed  scarcely  more  than  a 
mass  of  moving  darkness.  It  was  remarkable  that,  standing 
or  walking,  they  never  lost  sight  of  a  range  of  windows  in  one 
wing  of  the  City  Hall,  where  lights  shone  gloomily  into  the  mist, 
not  wandering  about  as  the  lamps  of  a  happy  household  often 
do,  but  motionless,  like  watchfires,  half  smothered  by  the  dense 
atmosphere. 

Once  more  these  two  persons  ascended  the  steps  and  en 
tered  the  vestibule,  from  which  the  horse-shoe  staircase  diverges. 
A  shower  of  sleet  followed  them,  and  the  wind  swept  wailing 
over  their  heads  as  they  went  in.  A  lamp  burned  near  the 
staircase,  and  for  a  moment,  the  faces  of  those  two  wanderers 
became  visible.  The  one  that  struck  you  first,  was  that 
of  a  female.  Tresses,  that  had  of  late  been  curled,  hung  in 
dripping  masses  down  each  side  of  her  face,  that  was  not  only 
as  white,  but  seemed  cold  also  as  marble.  A  pair  of  wild  eyes, 
really  blue,  but  blackened  with  the  smothered  fire  that  pro 
tracted  suspense  leaves  behind  it,  gleamed  out  from  the 
shadow  of  her  bonnet,  around  which  the  folds  of  a  heavy  lace 
veil  dripped  in  sodden  masses  to  her  shoulders.  The  velvet 
cloak  which  shrouded  her  was  heavy  with  rain  ;  its  lustre  all 
gone,  and  its  rich  fringes,  frozen  together  with  sleet,  rattled 
against  the  balustrades  as  she  pressed  them  in  passing.  Her 
companion — but  even  as  we  attempt  to  describe  him,  the  woman 
turns,  with  her  hand  upon  the  balustrade,  and  addresses  him — 
thus  giving  his  identity  better  than  any  description  could  convey. 

"  What  was  that,  Jacob  ?  A  noise — the  stirring  of  feet  ! 
Oh,  my  God — my  God — they  are  coming  in  1" 

She  caught  hold  of  Jacob's  rough  over-coat  with  one  hand. 
The  gleam  of  her  teeth,  as  they  knocked  together,  made  tho 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  401 

strong  man  recoil.  It  gave  an  expression  of  fearful  agony  to 
her  face.  He  listened. 

"  No,  it  is  the  wind  breaking  through  the  hall." 

"How  it  sobs  !  How  like  a  human  voice  it  is  !  Do  you 
hear  it  ?  Death  ! — -death  ! — that  is  what  it  says  1" 

"  You  shudder — you  are  cold.  How  your  teeth  chatter  1" 
said  Jacob,  folding  the  half-frozen  cloak  about  her.  "  What 
can  I  do  ?  If  you  would  only  go  home,  I  will  come  the  first 
minute  after  the  verdict.  Do — do  go  !" 

"  Hush!  it  is  there  again.  Are  the  winds  human,  that  they 
moan  so  ?" 

"  It  is  a  fierce  storm,  nothing  more,"  said  Jacob. 

A  woman  came  down  the  steps  that  moment.  She  had  no 
cloak  on,  and  a  thin  shawl  hung  in  limp  folds  over  her  shoul 
ders.  An  old  hood  lay  back  from  her  face,  revealing  features 
large  and  stern,  but  for  the  instant  softened  with  sorrow.  She 
came  from  the  vestibule  overhead.  In  that  direction  lay  the 
court-room.  Ada  saw  the  woman,  and  holding. out  both  her 
hands,  shivering  and  purple  with  cold,  walked  slowly  up  to 
meet  her.  These  two  females  had  seen  each  other  but  once  in 
the  world.  One  was  from  a  prison,  the  other  from  a  palatial 
home;  yet  they  stood  face  to  face,  on  equal  terms,  now.  I  am 
wrong  ;  the  woman  of  the  prison  looked  down  with  something 
of  stern  rebuke  upon  the  lady!  She  said  in  her  heart,  "The 
blood  of  this  old  man  be  upon  her  head !  Did  she  not  deny 
me  the  gold  that  might  have  saved  him  ?"  But  when  she 
looked  upon  that  face,  her  resentment  gave  way.  She  paused 
on  the  steps,  instead  of  pushing  roughly  by,  and  said,  in  a  tone 
that  sounded  peculiarly  gentle  from  its  contrast  with  her  ap 
pearance  and  bearing — 

"  This  is  a  bitter  night,  madam." 

"  Tell  me — tell  me,"  gasped  Ada,  seizing  the  woman's  shawl, 
and  raising  her  hand  toward  the  court-room,  "  have  they — have 
they—" 

"  Poor  thing  !  so  you  repent  at  last,"  answered  the  woman, 
comprehending  her  gesture  with  that  quick  magnetism  which  is 


402  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

the  lightning  of  some  hearts.  "  No,  they  have  not  come  in;  but 
it  is  of  no  use  waiting — the  poor  old  man  is  as  good  as  hung, 
depend  on  it." 

Ada  uttered  a  faint  cry,  very  faint,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
that  it  sounded  through  the  whole  building,  ringing  above  the 
storm  like  a  yell.  She  dropped  the  woman's  shawl,  and  stood 
motionless,  looking  helplessly  in  her  face. 

"You  had  better  take  the  lady  home,"  said  the  woman, 
turning  kindly  to  Jacob  ;  "  she  is  wet  through — the  ice  rattles 
on  her  clothes;  she  will  catch  her  death  of  cold.  I  would  stay 
and  help  her,  for  she  seems  in  trouble;  but  there  is  worse 
trouble  coming  for  the  poor  creature  overhead.  I  thought 
I  had  seen  hard  sights  before ;  but  this — there  is  no  brandy 
strong  enough  to  make  me  forget  this!" 

"  There  is  no  news — the  jury  are  still  out  ?"  questioned  Ja 
cob.  "  Tell  me!" 

"  No,  no — I  have  nothing  to  say — the  jury  are  out  yet — the 
judge  waiting — the  old  man — " 

"  Hush!"  said  Jacob,  "  she  is  listening." 

"  Stay — tell  me  all — the  old  man — tell  me  all !"  cried  Ada, 
hurrying  down  two  or  three  steps  after  the  woman. 

"  I  cannot  wait,  lady ;  the  jury  may  come  in  any  moment 
Those  poor  watchers  will  want  a  carriage.  I  must  find  one 
somewhere.  Nobody  thought  of  that  but  me.  They  might 
not  feel  the  storm,  for  the  verdict  will  numb  them ;  but  it  is  a 
piercing  night." 

"  You  have  no  cloak — scarcely  more  than  summer  clothes 
1  will  go,"  said  Jacob. 

"  I  am  used  to  battling  with  the  weather,"  was  the  answer. 
"Thank  you,  though." 

"  Stay  with  her,"  answered  Jacob,  and  he  hurried  down  the 
steps. 

"  How  the  wind  blows! — it  is  a  terrible  night,"  said  the  wo 
man,  drawing  her  scant  shawl  together,  and  sitting  down  by 
Ada,  who  had  sunk  upon  the  cold  steps,  as  if  all  the  strength 
tiad  with  Bred  from  her  limbs  the  moment  Jacob  left  her. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  403 

''You  tremble — your  teeth  chatter — these  poor  hands  are  like 
ice;  there,  there,  let  me  rub  them  between  mine." 

Ada  submitted  her  shivering  hands  meekly  as  a  child,  und  a 
drop,  that  was  not  rain,  stole  down  her  face. 

"  You  told  me  once,"  she  said,  "  that  money  would  save 
him  ;  will  thousands — hundreds  of  thousands  do  it  now  ?" 

"  It  is  too  late,"  answered  the  woman,  sadly. 

The  tempest  rose  just  then,  and,  to  Ada's  almost  frenzied 
mind,  it  seemed  as  if  every  swell  of  the  wind  answered  back, 
„"  too  late — too  late  !"  She  shuddered,  and  cowered  down  by 
the  woman,  as  if  a  death  sentence  were  ringing  over  her. 

When  Jacob  returned,  he  found  the  two~women  sitting  to 
gether,  upon  the  steps.  Ada  rose  to  her  feet,  and,  without 
speaking,  began  rapidly  to  mount  them.  Jacob  followed. 

"  Where  are  you  going  !     Not  there,  I  hope — not  there  1" 

"Yes,  there."' 

She  rushed  forward,  her  frozen  garments  crackling  and 
shedding  ice-drops  as  she  moved.  All  the  high-bred  dignity 
of  her  mien  was  gone;  all  the  richness  of  her  toilet 
drenched  away.  The  woman  who  followed  her  scarcely  looked 
more  poverty  stricken — did  not  look  so  utterly  desolate.  She 
opened  the  court-room  door,  and  crept  in.  All  the  audience 
was  gone.  Empty  benches  flung  their  long,  gloomy  shadows 
athwart  the  room.  Dim  lamps  flared  across  the  wall,  leaving 
patches  of  blackness  in  the  angles  and  around  every  object  that 
could  catch  and  break  the  weak  gleams  of  light.  The  judge 
was  upon  his  seat,  pale  and  still  as  a  statue  of  marble.  Weary 
with  excitement  and  the  protracted  trial,  he  sat  there  in  the 
gloomy  midnight,  waiting  for  the  death-word,  face  to  face  with 
that  old  man,  whose  life  lay  in  the  breath  on  his  lip.  Constantly 
his  eyes  turned  upon  the  prisoner,  and  always  they  were  met 
with  a  glance  that  penetrated  his  heart  to  the  core.  A  light, 
overhead,  fell  upon  the  old  man's  temple,  silvering  the  broad, 
high  forehead,  gleaming  through  the  white  locks  and  glancing 
downward,  shedding  faint  rays  upon  his  beard  and  bosom.  I 
have  seen  a  picture  of  Rembrandt's,  so  like  my  idea  of  the  old 


404  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

man,  that  it  has  haunted  me  ever  since.  The  calm,  deep-set 
eyes,  the  holy  strength  slumbering  within  them — the  expanse 
of  forehead,  the  whole  head,  were  so  perfectly  the  embodiment 
of  my  thought,  that  it  startled  me.  That  which  I  saw  in  the 
picture,  it  was,  which  penetrated  to  the  heart  of  the  judge,  as 
he  gazed  upon  the  living  man. 

A  group  of  police-officers  hung  about  the  door;  some  asleep, 
with  their  caps  down  over  their  eyes,  others  yawning  and 
stretched  at  full  length  upon  the  benches,  making  the  scene 
more  gloomy  by  the  contrast  of  their  indifference  with  the  an 
guish  that  surrounded  them. 

Away,  in  the  darkest  corner,  was  another  group  of  persons 
— three  females  and  a  man.  No  word,  no  whisper  passed 
among  them.  It  scarcely  seemed  as  if  they  drew  breath ;  but 
as  you  looked  that  way,  the  glitter  of  wild  eyes  struck  you  with 
a  sort  of  terror ;  and  if  the  least  sound  arose,  the  shadows 
around  those  women  changed  sharply,  as  if  they  felt  something 
of  the  anguish  which  made  their  principals  start.  Ada  Leices 
ter  crept  noiselessly  along  the  darkened  wall,  followed  by  the 
prison  woman,  and  sat  down  a  little  way  from  the  rest.  No 
one  seemed  to  regard  her,  and  there  she  remained  in  the  gloom, 
motionless  as  the  figures  upon  which  her  dull  eyes  were 
now  and  then  turned.  Thus  an  hour  went  by;  all  within  the 
court  room  was  silent  as  death ;  without  was  the  storm,  wail 
ing  and  sobbing  around  the  windows,  shaking  them  angrily,  like 
evil  spirits  striving  to  break  in,  then  rushing  off  with  a  hoarse 
disappointed  howl.  This  terrible  contrast — the  stillness  within 
• — the  wild  tumult  without — made  even  the  officers  cower  closer 
together,  and  filled  the  other  persons  present  with  intense  awe. 
It  seemed  as  if  heaven  and  earth  had  combined  in  hurling  de 
nunciations  against  that  hapless  old  man.  It  was  after  mid 
night,  and  for  an  instant  there  was  a  hush  in  the  storm — a 
hush  in  the  vast  building.  Then  came  the  sharp  closing  of  a 
door,  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet,  and  twelve  figures  glided,  one 
after  another,  into  the  court-room.  They  ranged  themselves  in 
a  dark  line  along  the  jury-box,  and  stood  motionless,  their 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  405 

cloak^  huddled  around  them,  like  folds  of  a  thunder-cloud, 
their  faces  white  as  marble. 

The  judge  arose,  leaning  heavily  with  one  hand  upon  the  desk 
before  him.  His  lips  moved,  but  it  was  not  till  a  second  effort 
that  they  gave  forth  a  sound  ;  but  when  it  did  come,  his  voice 
broke  through  the  room  like  a  trumpet. 

"  Prisoner,  stand  up  and  look  upon  the  jury  I" 

The  old  man  arose,  and  turning  meekly  around,  lifted  his 
eyes  to  the  twelve  jurors.  *  *  * 

"  Guilty  or  not  guilty  ?" 

"  Guilty  I" 

The  storm  began  to  howl  again,  but  all  was  still  in  the  court 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE  PARENTS,  THE  CHILD  AND  GRANDCHILD 

Nor  sin,  nor  shame,  nor  sense  of  wrong 

Can  yet  a  mother's  love  control* 
It  waiteth,  watcheth,  hopeth  long, 

And  grows  Immortal  with  the  soul. 

THE  next  morning,  a  carriage,  one  of  the  few  superb  equi 
pages  that  give  an  air  of  elegance  to  Broadway,  equal  to  that 
of  any  public  drive* I  have  yet  seen,  stopped  at  the  corner  of 
Franklin  street.  The  grey  horses  and  deep  green  of  the  car 
riage  were  well  known  in  that  thoroughfare,  and  it  had  been 
too  often  seen  before  Stewart's,  and  Bali  &  Black's,  for  any 
one  to  remark  the  time  during  which  it  remained  in  that 
unusual  place. 

Had  any  one  seen  Ada  Leicester  as  she  descended  from  the 
carriage  and  walked  hurriedly  toward  the  City  Prison,  it 
might  have  been  a  matter  of  wonder,  how  a  creature  so  elegant 
and  so  fastidious  had  forced  herself  to  enter  a  neighborhood 


406  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

which  few  women  visit,  except  from  force  or  objects  or*  phil 
anthropy. 

Jacob  Strong  walked  by  the  side  of  his  mistress.  Few 
words  passed  between  them,  for  both  seemed  painfully  preoccu 
pied.  Jacob  betrayed  this  state  of  mind  by  a  more  decided 
stoop  of  the  shoulders,  and  by  knocking  his  great  feet  against 
every  loose  brick  in  the  sidewalk,  as  he  stumbled  along.  The 
lady  moved  on  as  one  walks  in  a  dream,  her  eyes  bent  upon  the 
pavement,  her  ungloved  hand  grasping  the  purple  velvet  of  her 
cloak  and  holding  it  against  her  bosom.  The  people  who  passed 
her  thought  it  a  pretty  piece  of  coquetry,  by  which  she  might 
reveal  the  jewels  that  flashed  upon  the  snow  of  that  beautiful 
hand.  Alas,  how  little  we  can  judge  of  one  another!  The  del 
icate  primrose  gloves  had  dropped  from  her  grasp  unheeded, 
and  lay  trampled  in  the  mud  close  by  her  own  door.  The 
maid  had  placed  them  in  her  palsied  hand,  as  she  had  performed 
all  other  duties  of  the  toilet  that  morning,  but  the  wretched 
woman  was  quite  unconscious  of  it  all. 

They  entered  the  prison.  A  few  words  passed  between  Ja 
cob  and  the  warden  in  an  outer  office;  then  a  door  was  flung 
open,  and  they  entered  an  open  court  within  the  walls  ;  stone 
buildings  ranged  all  around,  casting  gaunt  shadows  athwart 
them.  They  crossed  the  court,  passed  through  a  low  door, 
and  entered  the  hall  where  male  prisoners  are  kept.  Ada  was 
scarcely  conscious  that  a  score  of  eyes  were  bent  on  her  from 
the  galleries  overhead,  along  which  prisoners  charged  with 
lighter  offences  were  allowed  to  range.  At  that  moment  a 
regiment  of  soldiers  might  have  stood  in  her  way,  and  she 
would  have  passed  through  their  midst,  unconscious  of  the 
obstruction.  She  mounted  to  the  third  gallery,  following  after 
Jacob,  until  he  paused  at  one  of  the  heavy  iron  doors  which 
pierced  the  whole  wall  at  equal  distances  from  pavement  to 
ceiling.  An  officer,  who  had  preceded  them,  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock,  and  flung  the  door  open,  with  a  clang  that  made  Ada 
start,  as  if  some  one  had  struck  her. 

"  Shall  I  go  in  with  you  ?"  said  Jacob. 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  407 

She  did  not  answer,  save  by  a  short  breath,  that  seemed  to 
tear  her  own  bosom  without  yielding  a  sound,  and  entered  the 
cell.  Jacob  leaned  forward,  and  closing  the  door  after  her, 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  gallery,  but  never  passing 
more  than  six  or  eight  paces  from  the  cell. 

Ada  Leicester  stood  face  to  face  with  her  father.  He  had 
been  reading,  and  had  laid  the  old  Bible  on  the  bed  by  his  side 
as  the  noise  of  her  approach  disturbed  him.  His  steel-mounted 
spectacles  were  still  before  his  eyes,  dimmed,  it  may  be,  by 
traces  of  tears,  shed  unconsciously,  for  he  could  not  distinguish 
clearly  through  them,  and  with  a  motion  so  familiar  that  it 
made  her  tremble,  he  folded  them  up  and  placed  them  within 
the  pages  of  the  book. 

She  paused,  motionless,  after  taking  one  step  into  the  room, 
and  but  for  the  shiver  of  her  silk  dress,  which  the  trembling  ol 
her 'limbs  disturbed,  as  the  leaves  are  shaken  in  autumn,  sb^ 
might  have  been  a  draped  statue,  her  face  and  hands  were  r<> 
marble-like. 

The  old  man  looked  at  her,  and  she  at  him.  He  did  not 
attempt  to  speak,  and  a  single  word  died  on  her  lip  again  aud 
again,  without  giving  forth  a  sound.  At  length  that  one  word 
broke  forth,  and  rushed  like  an  arrow  from  her  heart  to  his — 

"Father!" 

It  was  the  first  word  that  her  infant  lips  had  ever  uttered. 
The  old  man  was  blinded  by  it.  He  saw  nothing  of  the  stately 
pale  woman,  the  gleaming  eyes,  the  rich  drapery;  but  a  little 
girl,  some  twelve  months  old,  seemed  to  have  crept  to  his 
knees.  He  saw  the  ringlet  of  soft  golden  hair,  the  large  blue 
eyes,  the  little  dimpled  shoulder  peeping  out  from  its  calico 
dress  ;  he  reached  forth  his  hands  to  press  them  down  upon 
these  pretty  shoulders,  for  the  vision  was  palpable  as  life. 
They  descended  upon  the  bowed  head  of  the  woman,  for  she 
had  fallen  crouching  to  his  feet.  He  drew  those  hands  back 
with  a  moan.  The  innocent  child  had  vanished  ;  the  prostrato 
woman  was  there. 

"Father!" 


408  FASHION     AND      FAMINE. 

He  held  his  hands  one  instant,  quivering  like  withered  leaves, 
over  her  head,  and  then  dropped  them  gently  down  upon  her 
shoulders. 

"My  daughter!" 

Then  came  a  rush  of  tears,  a  wild  clinging  of  arms,  a  shaking 
of  silken  garments,  and  deep  sobs,  that  seemed  like  the  parting 
of  soul  and  body.  Ada  clung  to  her  father.  She  laid  her  cold 
face  upon  his  knees,  and  drew  herself  up  to  his  bosom. 

"Forgive  me!  forgive  me! — oh,  my  father,  forgive  me!" 

The  old  man  lifted  her  gently  in  his  arms,  and  seated  her 
upon  the  bed.  He  took  off  her  bonnet,  and  smoothed  the  rich 
hair  it  had  concealed  between  his  hands. 

"  And  so  you  have  come  home  again,  my  child  I" 

"Home!" 

She  looked  around  the  cell,  and  then  into  the  eyes  of  her 
father. 

"I  have  given  you  this  home — I,  who  have  sought  for  you — 
prayed — prayed,  father,  not  as  you  pray,  but  madly,  wildly 
prayed  for  one  look,  one  word — pardon,  pardon!  I  have  got 
it — I  see  it — you  pardon  me  with  your  eyes,  my  father ;  but 
oh,  how  wretched  I  am — I,  who  gave  you  a  home  like  this!" 

"  No,  not  you,  but  God  !"  answered  the  old  man.  "  I  knew 
from  the  first  that  our  Father  who  is  in  heaven  had  not  afflicted 
his  servant  for  nothing.  All  will  be  well  at  last,  Ada." 

"  But  you  will  die!     Even  to-day  will  they  sentence  you!" 

"I  know  it,  and  am  ready;  for  now  I  begin  to  see  how 
wisely  God  has  willed  that  the  last  remnant  of  an  old  man's 
life  shall  be  the  restoration  of  his  child." 

"  But  you  are  innocent,  and  they  will  kill  you!" 

"  They  cannot  kill  more  than  this  old  body,  my  child.  Even 
now  it  feels  the  breath  of  eternity.  What  though  the  withered 
leaf  is  shaken  a  moment  earlier  from  its  bough !" 

Ada  held  her  breath,  and  gazed  upon  her  father,  filled  with 
strange  awe.  The  quiet  tone,  the  gentle  resignation  in  bis 
words,  tranquillized  her  like  music.  She  could  not  realize  that 
be  was  to  die.  Her  soul  was  flooded  with  love;  her  eyes  an- 


FASHION   AND  FAMINE.         409 

swered  back  the  holy  affection  that  "beamed  in  his.  For  that 
moment  she  was  happy.  Her  childhood  came  softly  back 
She  forgot  her  own  sin  alike  with,  her  father's  danger, 

*  Now,77  said  the  old  man,  "  tell  me  all  that  I  do  not  know. 
By  what  means  has  "God  sent  you  here  ?" 

At  these  words  Ada  half  arose.-;  -all  the  joy  went  out  from 
iier  face ;  her  eyes  drooped  ••  the  lines  about  her  mouth  hard 
ened  again;  she  attempted  to  look  up,  faflbd,  and  with  both 
lia*ids  shrouded  her  guilty  features. 

"  How  much  do  you  "know  ?"  she  -inquired,  in  a  -hoarse  voice. 

"  I  know,"  said  the  old  man,  "  that  you  left  an  unworthy 
husband  and  -a  happy  -child,  to  follow  a  stranger  to  a  strange 
land." 

•"  But  you  did  not  know,"  said  Ada,  still  veiling  her  face, 
"you  did  not  know  bow  cruelly,  how  dreadfully  I  was  treated; 
'now  I  was  left  days  and  weeks  together  in  hot-els  and  boarding 
houses,  without  money,  without  friends,  exposed  to  all  sorts  of 
temptation.  You  cannot  know  all  the  circumstances  that  com 
bined  to  drive  me  mad.  Still  do  not  say  I  'abandoned  the 
child.  Did  I  not  send  her  to  you  ?  Did  I  not  give  her  up 
^viien  she  was  dear  as  the  pulses  of  my  own  heart,  rather  than 
cast  the  stain  of  my  example  upon  her  ?  Oh.,  father,  was  this 
nothing  ?" 

"  We  took  the  child,  and  strove  to  forget  the  mother,"  said 
the  old  man  sadly. 

"  But  could  not — oh,  you  could  not  !  This  thought  was  the 
one  anchor  which  kept  me  from  utter  shipwreck,  you  could  not 
curse  an  only  child — wicked,  erring,  cruel  though  she  was!" 

"  No,  we  did  not  curse  her — we  had  no  power  to  forget." 

"  I  came  back — Jacob  Strong  will  bear  me  witness — I  lost 
uo  time  in  searching  for  you  at  the  homestead.  Strangers  were 
there.  Had  we  met  then — had  I  found  the  old  place  as  it  was 
— you,  my  mother,  my  daughter  there — how  different  all  this 
might  have  been  I" 

"  God  disposes  all  things,"  muttered  the  prisoner.  "  We  left 
our  home  when  disgrace  fell  upon  us.  We  who  had  been  sia- 

18 


410  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

fully  proud  of  you,  Ada,  went  forth  burdened  by  your  shame  to 
hide  ourselves  among"  strangers  ;  we  could  not  look  our  old 
neighbors  in  the  face,  and  so  left  them  and  gave  up  the  name 
our  child  had  disgraced.'7 

"  Father — father,  spare  me — I  am  wretched — I  am  punished 
— spare  me,  spare  me  !" 

"  Ada,"  said  the  old  man  solemnly,  "  do  you  heartily  repent 
and  forsake  your  Ru  ?" 

"  I  do  repent — I  have  forsaken — he  is  dead  for  whom  I  left 
you  ;  it  was  a  solitary  fault,  bitterly,  oh,  bitterly  atoned  for." 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  earnestly — at  the  glowing  purple 
of  her  garments — at  the  delicate  veil  she  had  gathered  up  to 
her  face  with  one  hand.  The  other  had  fallen  nervelessly 
down.  The  old  man  took  it  from  her  lap  and  gazed  sadly  on 
the  jewels  that  sparkled  on  her  fingers.  She  felt  the  touch, 
and  the  trembling  hand  became  crimson  in  his  clasp. 

"  And  yet  you  wear  these  things  !" 

She  shrunk  away,  and  the  glow  of  her  shame  spread  and 
burned  over  every  visible  part  of  her  person. 

"  Cast  them  from  you,  daughter — come  to  me  in  the  pretty 
calico  dress  that  became  you  so  well — give  up  these  wages  of 
shame — become  poor,  honest  and  humble,  as  we  are;  then  will 
your  mother  receive  you  ;  then  your  child  may  know  that  she 
has  a  mother  living;  then  your  old  father  can  die  in  peace, 
knowing  that  his  life  has  not  been  sacrificed  in  vain." 

The  old  man  looked  wistfully  at  her,  as  he  spoke.  He  saw 
the  struggle  in  her  face — the  reluctance  with  which  she  under 
stood  him,  and  tightened  his  grasp  on  her  hand. 

"What — what  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  she  said. 

"  Cast  aside  all  that  you  possess,  save  that  which  comes  of 
honest  labor,  and  earn  the  forgiveness  you  ask." 

"  Father,  I  cannot  do  this;  the  wealth  that  I  possess  is  vast; 
it  was  devised  to  me  by  will  upon  his  death-bed;  it  was  an 
atonement  upon  his  part." 

"  The  wages  of  sin  are  death." 

"Death,  father,  death!     Surely  you  are  right.     Leicester  is 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  '411 

dead;  they  will  murder  you.  Nothing  but  this  money,  this 
very  wealth  that  I  am  ordered  to  cast  aside,  can  save  you," 

<;  And  that  never  shall  save  me  !"  answered  the  old  man 
with- grave  dignity;  "the  price  of  my  daughter's  sin,  let  it  be 
millions,  shall  never  buy  an  hour  of  life  for  me,  were  it  possible 
thus  to  bribe  the  law." 

"  Oh  father,  father,  do  not'say  this;  it  crushes  my  last  hope." 

"Daughter,"  and  the  old  man  stood  up,  while  his  face  glowed 
as  with  the  light  of  prophecy,  "  it  is  not  this  ill-gotten  wealth 
that  shall  purchase  my  life ;  but  it  is  the  death  I  shall  suffer, 
which  will  purchase  the  salvation  of  my  child.  The  way  of 
providence  is  made  clear  to  me  now  ;  I  see  it  plainly,  as  if 
written  upon  the  wall  that  has  seemed  so  blank  to  my  eyes 
till  now." 

The  hand  fell  from  her  face.  She  gazed  upon  him  with  awe, 
for  the  solemn  faith  that  beamed  in  his  eyes  held  her  breathless. 
That  moment  the  cell  door  was  opened,  and  Mrs.  Warren  came 
in,  followed  by  her  grand-daughter.  The  old  woman  paused 
motionless  upon  the  threshold,  hesitating  and  pallid.  Ada 
stood  up  trembling  and  afraid  in  the  presence  of  her  mother.  A 
moment  the  two  stood  face  to  face,  gazing  at  each  other;  then 
the  old  woman  stretched  forth  her  arms,  and  tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks.  Ada  would  have  thrown  herself  forward,  but  the 
old  prisoner  interposed. 

"  No,  wife,  not  yet  ;  the  time  is  at  hand  when  our  child  shall 
come  back  to  your  bosom,  like  the  lamb  that  was  lost;  but  God 
has  a  work  to  accomplish  first ;  have  patience  and  let  her  de 
part." 

"  Patience,  patience  !  Oh,  Wilcox,  she  is  our  child  Ada, 
Ada!" 

He  was  not  strong  enough  to  keep  them  apart.  Their  arms 
were  interwoven  ;  they  clung  together,  filling  the  cell  with  soft 
murmurs  and  smothered  sobs.  Broken  syllables  of  endearment 
— all  the  pathetic  language  with  which  heart  speaks  to  heart  in 
defiance  of  words,  gave  power  to  the  scene.  Remember, 
reader,  it  was  a  mother  meeting  her  only  child — her  sinful,  er- 


412*  FASHION     AND     FAMINE. 

ring  child — for  the  first  time  in  years.  They  met  in  a  prison, 
with  death  shadows  all  around.  Was  it  wonderful  that,  for 
giving,  forgetting,  they  clung  together  ?  Or  that  the  turnkey, 
as  he  looked  in,  felt  the  tears  bathing  his  cheek  ?  \ 

It  is  a  mercy  that  intense  feeling  has  its  limits,  else  a  scene 
like  this  might  have  broken  the  two  hearts  that  rushed  to 
gether,  as  torrents  meet  in  a  storm.  Their  arms  unlocked  at 
length,  and  the  two  women  only  held  by  each  other  from  weak 
ness. 

"And  this  is  my  child,  my  little  Julia,"  said  Ada,  turning 
her  eyes  upon  the  young  girl  who  stood  by,  troubled  and 
amazed  by  all  she  saw. 

She  bent  forward,  and  would  have  kissed  the  girl,  but  the 
old  man  interposed  again  solemnly,  almost  sternly. 

"  Not  yet — the  lip  must  be  purified,  the  kiss  made  holy, 
which  touches  the  forehead  of  this  innocent  one." 

"  I  will  go,  father,  I  will  go — this  is  bitter,  but  perhaps  just. 
I  will  go  while  I  have  the  strength." 

Ada  left  the  cell.  We  will  not  follow  her  to  the  scene  of 
her  solitary  and  splendid  anguish.  We  will  not  remain  in  the 
prisoner's  cell.  The  scene  passing  there  was  too  holy  and  too 
pathetic  for  description  ;  yet  was  there  more  happiness  that 
day  in  the  prison,  than  Ada  Leicester  found  in  her  palace- 
home.  Truly  it  is  much  better  to  suffer  wrong,  than  to  do 
wrong  1 


CHAPTER  XXXYII. 

THE    DAWNING     OF     LIGHT. 

As  sunshine  falls  upon  a  flower 
That  storms  have  beaten  to  the  ground, 

Her  heart  began  to  feel  the  power 
Of  his  deep  love  and  faith  profound. 

THE  sentence  was  pronounced  ;  the  time  of  execution  fixed. 
Each   morning,  as  the  prisoner  awoke,  he  said   to  himself, 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  413 

another  is  gone  ;  so  many,  and  so  many  days  are  left.  I  dare 
not  say  that  this  man  did  not  occasionally  shrink  from  the 
agony  that  awaited  him  ;  or  that  the  clouds  of  doubt  did  not 
grow  black  above  his  head,  more  than  once  ;  but  at  all  times 
his  mien  was  tranquil,  his  words  full  of  resignation.  Some 
hope,  some  sublime  faith,  stronger  than  death,  seemed  to  bear 
him  up. 

His  daughter  came  to  him  more  than  once,  and  always  left  the 
cell  with  a  changed  manner  and  subdued  aspect.  While  there 
was  a  hope  of  saving  the  prisoner,  she  had  been  excited  and 
almost  wild  in  her  demeanor.  She  appealed  to  the  governor  in 
person.  She  lavished  gold.  On  every  hand  the  great  power 
of  her  personal  influence  was  all  tested  to  the  utmost,  but  in 
vain.  There  exist  cases  in  which  the  fangs  of  the  law  fasten 
deep,  and  no  human  power  can  unloose  them.  In  this  instance, 
mercy  veiled  her  face,  and  justice  became  cruelty. 

At  no  time  did  the  old  man  sanction  or  partake  of  his  daugh 
ter's  efforts.  Shall  I  say,  that  he  did  not  even  -desire  them  to 
succeed  ?  One  sublime  idea  had  taken  possession  of  his  mind, 
and  when  he  prayed,  it  was  not  that  he  might  be  saved  from 
death,  but  that  the  pang  which  sent  him  into  eternity  might 
open  the  gates  of  paradise  to  his  child. 

I  have  said  that  the  old  man  was  feeble,  and  scenes  through 
which  no  human  being  could  pass  with  unshaken  nerves, 
had  gradually  undermined  the  little  strength  that  age  and  pri 
vation  had  spared.  Those  who  saw  him  every  day  scarcely 
noticed  this,  the  change  was  so  gradual;  but  the  sheriff,  who 
came  but  once  each  week,  remarked  how  frail  he  was  becoming, 
and  how  difficult  it  was  for  him  to  support  the  irons  with  which 
they  had  manacled  his  limbs.  More  than  once  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  It  will  scarcely  be  more  than  a  shadow  that  they  force 
me  to  strangle."  Still,  as  his  strength  gave  way,  the  holy 
faith  within  him  beamed  out  stronger  and  brighter,  as  a  flame 
becomes  more  brilliant  from  increased  purity  of  the  oil  on 
which  it  feeds. 

All  hope  was  gone— and  Ada  saw  her  father  every  day,  al- 


^  414  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

ways  alone,  and  her  visits  lasted  for  hours.  At  such  times, 
Jacob  Strong,  who  kept  sentinel  at  the  door,  would  pause  and 
hold  his  breath,  struck,  as  it  were,  by  the  sweet,  solemn  tones 
that  came  through  the  door.  Sometimes  you  might  have  seen 
him  brush  one  huge  hand  across  his  eyes ;  and  then,  bowing  his 
head  upon  his  bosom,  pace  slowly  to  and  fro,  with  a  mournful 
but  not  altogether  dissatisfied  look. 

After  these  visits,  Ada  would  come  forth  with  a  subdued  and 
gentle  air,  which  no  person  had  ever  witnessed  in  her  before. 
The  entire  character  of  her  beauty  changed.  Her  features  be 
came  thin;  her  person  lost  something  of  its  roundness,  but 
gained  in  that  refined  grace  which  is  indescribable.  Her  eyes 
grew  darker  and  softer  from  the  shadows  that  deepened  under 
them.  Something  of  holy  light  there  was  too,  that  brooded 
sadly  there  in  place  of  the  brilliancy  that  had  kindled  them  so 
often  almost  into,  wildness.  If  Ada  had  been  beautiful  when 
we  first  knew  her,  she  was  far  lovelier  now.  The  heart  yearned 
toward  her  as  it  felt  the  glance  of  her  eyes.  The  earthly  was 
becoming  purified  from  her  being,  and  the  resemblance  between 
her  and  the  old  man  seemed  to  have  found  a  spiritual  link. 
Truly  the  solemn  faith  within  him  was  near  its  reward 


CHAPTER    XXXYIII. 

GATHERING  FOR  THE  EXECUTION. 

He  was  a  man  of  simple  heart, 
Patient  and  meek  ;  the  Christian  part 
Came  to  his  soul  as  came  the  air 
That  heaved  his  bosom ;  hope,  despair, 
Were  chastened  by  a  holy  faith  ! 
Meek  in  his  life  he  feared  not  death. 

THE  day  of  execution  arrived,  and  every  hearth-stone  in  the 
great  metropolis  was  shadowed  by  a  knowledge  that  at  an  hour 
to  be  fixed  between  sunrise  and  sunset,  a  human  being  was  to  be 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  415 

9 

strangled  to  death — forced  brutally  into  the  presence  of  his    ' 
Maker.     Children   whispered    to   one   another    in    the    grey 
dawn  as  they  crept  awe-stricken   from   their  little  couches. 
Mothers — those  who  had  hearts — grew  sad  as  they  thought  of 
the  household  ties  which  the  law  would  that  day  tear  asunder. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  law  of  blood  for  blood,  which  some 
good  men  cling  to  so  tenaciously,  should  be  altogether  abolished. 
Women  who  from  the  natural  and  just  arrangement  of  social 
life,  have  no  share  in  forming  laws,  can  scarcely  arrogate  to 
themselves  the  right  of  advancing  or  of  condemning  those  which 
owe  their  existence  to  the  greatest  masculine  intellect ;  and  we, 
who  reason  so  much  from  the  heart,  can  never  be  sure  that  the 
angel  of  mercy,  whom  we  worship,  may  not  sometimes  crowd 
Justice  from  her  seat.     But  there  is  no  law  that  should  permit  \ 
a  solemn  act  of  justice  to  become  a  jubilee  for  the  mob.     Exe-  I 
cutions,  if  they  must  darken  the  history  of  a  nation,  should  be  j 
still  as  the  grave — solemn  as  the  eternity  to  which  they  lead. 

Two  wardens  had  been  placed  over  the  prisoner  that  night, 
for  the  sheriff  feared  that  the  poor  old  man  might  attempt  sui 
cide.  It  was  a  useless  precaution  for  one  who  was  so  close  to 
death,  and  yet  slept  so  calmly.  There  he  lay  in  the  deep 
slumber  which  is  so  sweet  to  old  age.  The  men  kept  a  light  in 
the  cell,  and  it  streamed  softly  over  those  calm,  pale  features, 
revealing  a  faint  smile  upon  the  lips,  and  the  impalpable  shadows 
scattered  over  his  forehead  by  the  white  hair  that  lay  around 
his  temples.  Sometimes,  as  the  men  gazed  upon  this  picture, 
and  thought  of  the  morrow,  with  all  its  death  horrors,  they 
turned  from  each  other  with  a  sort  of  terror,  and  sat  with 
downcast  eyes,  gazing  upon  the  floor,  for  it  made  them  heart-sick 
—the  contrast  of  that  peaceful  slumber  and  the  brutal  death- 
sleep  into  which  they  were  guarding  the  old  man. 

At  the  most,  it  was  but  a  brief  gleam  of  life  that  the  law 
claimed;  and  even  that  had  grown  faint  within  the  last  few 
days,  so  faint  that  it  seemed  doubtful  if  the  officers  of  the  law- 
would  not  be  compelled  to  lift  its  victim  to  the  scaffold,  when 
the  hour  of  sacrifice  came.  The  day  dawned  quietly,  and  shed 


416  FASHION      AND     FAMINE, 

% 

a  sort  of  still,  holy  light  over  the  slumbering  man.  Then,  for 
the  first  timer  his  keepeys  remarked  how  deathly  pale  was  the- 
serene  countenance — how  feeble  was  the  breath  that  scarcely 
stirred  the  coarse  linen  on  his  bosom.- 

Everything  was  still.  The  cold  dawn,  the  quiet  city,  and  the 
prison  lying  heavy  and  grim  in  its  bosom.  All  at  once  this 
stillness  was  broken  by  the  fall  of  a  hammer,  distinct  and  sharp 
as  the  beat  of  a  death-watch.  It  made  the  officers  start  and 
look  at  each  other  with  meaning  eyes  ;  but  the  old  man  slept 
on,  and  the  sound  might  have  been  the  sigh  of  an  angel,  instead 
of  the  hideous  death-signal  that  it  wasr  for  it  only  disturbed 
that  tranquil  slumber  pleasantly,  as  it  would  seem.  A  faint 
smile  dawned  upon  the  face,  and  he  folded  his  hands  softly 
upon  his  bosom,  with  a  deeper  breath,  as  if  some  vision  of  in 
effable  happiness  filled  his  thought. 

It  seemed  a  cruelty  to  disturb  the  last  sleep  he  was  ever  to 
know  on  earth,,  and  s&  the  morning  deepened,  and  the  prison 
was  filled  with  that  sort  of  muffled  tumult  which  bespeaks  the 
opening  day  within  those  walls,  before  the  old  man  awoke. 

Other  persons  than  the  keepers  were  in  the  cell  then.  The 
wife,  who  was  so  soon  to  be  a  widow,  and  the  grandchild,  half 
orphaned  at  heart,  were  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  watch 
ing  him  dimly  through  their  tears.  He  held  forth  his  hands 
on  seeing  them,  and  with  the  same  smile  that  had  haunted  his 
slumber,  asked  after  their  welfare.  You  should  have  seen  that 
aged  couple,  in  their  humble  but  sublime  sorrow,  that  day,  for 
it  was  a  beautiful  sight,  and  one  which  is  not  often  witnessed 
within  the  walls  of  a  felon's  cell.  There  they  sat,  hand  in  hand, 
linked  together  by  that  beautiful  love  that  outlives  all  things, 
comforting  each  other  with  gentle  earnestness — he  reading  pas 
sages  from  the  Bible  to  her  now  and  then,  and  she  more  than 
once  smiling  hopefully  through  her  tears,  when  he  spoke  of  their 
great  age,  and  of  the  little  time  that  they  could  possibly  be 
kept  asunder.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  they  were  talking  of 
death,  but  of  some  important  and  not  unpleasant  journey,  in 
which  the  wife  would  soon  follow  her  husband  to  a  new  home. 


FASHION      AND     FAMINE.  417 

The  grandchild  sat  l)y  in  silent  grief.  It  seemed  a  long  time 
for  her  to  wait,  she  was  so  young,  so  cruelly  full  of  life.  She 
could  not,  with  her  sensitive  feelings  and  quick  imagination,  cast 
off  the  consciousness  of  all  the  horrors  that  would  that  day  over 
whelm  her  grandfather.  Her  eyes  were  heavy  with  weeping. 
At  every  sound  a  shiver  of  terrible  apprehension  ran  through 
her  frame,  and  she  would  grasp  at  the  old  man's  hand,  as  if 
scared  with  dread  that  they  might  tear  him  away  before  the 
appointed  time. 

Then  came  another — and  that  prison  cell  was  crowded  full 
of  grief.  Ada  Leicester,  modestly  clad,  with  all  the  jewels 
stripped  from  her  hands,  and  her  superb  beauty  veiled  and 
toned  down  by  suffering,  such  as  wrings  all  bitterness  from  the 
heart,  stood  with  her  parents  once  more,  a  portion  of  the  house 
hold  her  own  errors  had  desolated.  Then  the  old  man  arose 
in  his  bed,  and  his  benign  features  lighted  up  with  such  joy  as 
the  angels  know  over  a  sinner  that  repeiiteth. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  opening  his  arms  to  receive  her,  "my 
child,  who  was  lost  and  is  found  I"  For  a  moment  he  held  her 
to  his  bosom ;  then  lifting  his  head,  he  reached  forth  one  hand, 
and  drew  his  grandchild  forward. 

"  It  is  your  mother,  Julia,  your  own  mother;  she  has  been 
far  away  for  many  years  ;  God  has  sent  her  back.  Ada,  kiss 
your  daughter  ;  Julia,  my  grandchild,  love  your  mother,  rever 
ence  her,  for  this  day  shall  I  be  one  of  those  that  rejoice  over 
her  in  heaven." 

Ada  turned  to  her  daughter,  and  timidly  held  forth  her 
arms.  A  thrill  so  exquisite  that  it  swept  all  the  tears  from 
her  heart,  passed  over  the  bereaved  girl.  She  moved  forward; 
she  nestled  close  to  the  bosom  of  her  mother ;  she  murmured 
the  name  over  and  over  a'gain,  "  Mother — mother — mother!" 

I  have  dwelt  upon  this  scene,  perhaps,  tediously,  and  only, 
gentle  reader,  because  my  heart  and  nerves  shrink  from  a  de 
scription  of  that  which  was  going  on  without  the  prison.  It  is 
so  much  better  to  describe  that  which  is  holy  and  strong  in 
human  nature,  than  to  yield  oneself  up  to  scenes  that  shock 

18* 


418  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

and  revolc  every  pure  feeling,  every  gentle  affection.  But  in 
portraying  life  as  it  is,  an  author  cannot  always  choose  the  flower 
nooks,  or  keep  back  the  clouds  that  darken  human  nature. 

It  was  a  winter's  day,  cold  and  drear,  without  being  stormy. 
The  sky  was  clouded'a  little,  and  of  that  pale,  hard  blue  which 
is  more  desolate  than  absolute  storm.  The  air  seemed  full  of 
snow,  but  none  fell;  and  the  sunshine,  when  it  did  penetrate  the 
atmosphere,  streamed  mournfully  to  the  brown,  frozen  earth. 
Had  you  gone  into  the  streets  that  day,  something  in  the  aspect 
of  the  populace  would  have  told  you  that  an  event  of  no  com 
mon  interest  was  about  to  transpire.  Men  were  grouped  at 
the  corners  and  around  the  doors.  Business  was  in  a  degree 
suspended.  But  few  females  were  abroad,  and  they  walked  hur 
riedly,  as  if  necessity  alone  had  called  them  from  home. 

The  time  of  execution  was  fixed  at  five  in  the  afternoon,  an 
hour  when  the  gay  world  usually  throngs  Broadway.  But  for 
once  that  noble  promenade  was  deserted ;  and  though  the  cross 
streets  began  to  fill  long  before  noon,  it  was  not  by  the  class 
who  usually  make  the  great  thoroughfare  so  full  of  life. 

It  was  a  singular  thing ;  but  that  day,  a  little  after  twelve, 
a  star  became  visible,  hanging,  pale  and  dim,  like  a  funereal 
lamp  in  the  cold  sky.  At  every  corner  you  saw  groups  of  men 
and  boys  gazing  upward,  with  superstitious  awe,  as  if  there 
must  be  some  connection  between  this  star  and  the  human  soul 
about  to  be  launched  into  eternity.  It  might  have  been  only 
the  grey  light;  but  every  one  who  went  forth  that  morning 
must  have  noticed  how  pallid  were  the  faces  that  met  his  view 
in  the  streets.  It  is  difficult  to  excite  the  masses  of  a  great 
city;  but  in  this  case  there  had  been  so  much  to  interest  the 
public,  that  for  once  the  multitude  seemed  perfectly  aroused. 
The  age  of  the  prisoner,  the  exceeding  beauty  and  touching 
loveliness  of  his  grandchild,  the  position  and  fashionable  asso 
ciations  of  William  Leicester — all  conspired  to  arouse  public 
interest  to  a  state  of  unusual  excitement.  Hour?  before  the 
time  of  execution,  the  city  prison  was  besieged  by  an  eager 
mob.  Mechanics  left  their  work  ;  women  of  the  lower  classes 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  419 

went  forth,  some  with  infants  in  their  arms,  some  leading  sons 
and  daughters  by  the  hand,  all  eager  and  full  of  open-mouthed 
curiosity  to  see  a  fellow-creature  strangled  to  death  in  the  face 
of  high  heaven, 

It  had  been  given  forth  that  this  execution  would  be  private, 
in  the  court  of  the  prison ;  that  is,  three  or  four  hundred  per 
sons,  favorites  of  the  sheriff,  or  members  of  the  press,  might 
have  the  exquisite  satisfaction  of  seeing  how  an  old  man  could 
die,  and  these  would  duly  report  his  struggles  and  his  agonies, 
the  next  morning,  through  the  daily  press,  that  the  crowd, 
heaving,  swearing,  and  jostling  together  without  the  walls, 
might  have  their  horrid  curiosity  satisfied. 

All  the  cross  streets  around  the  prison  filled  rapidly  up;  and 
Centre  street,  down  to  Reade  and  above  White,  was  crowded 
full  of  human  beings.  Then  they  began  to  swarm  closer,  filling 
the  housetops  and  windows,  choking  up  the  door  passages  and 
alleys,  till  every  standing-place  within  sight  of  the  prison  was 
crowded  full  of  eager,  brutal  life.  I  am  saying  now  what 
might  be  deemed  a  cruel  perversion  of  probability  in  fiction, 
but  which  many  of  my  readers  well  know  to  be  a  disgraceful 
truth.  But  in  the  windows,  and  on  the  roofs  of  almost  every 
house  that  overlooked  the  prison,  appeared  that  day  women 
not  of  the  lowest  classes,  who  came  there  to  witness  a  scene  at 
which  the  very  soul  revolts — women  whom,  with  all  the  proud 
love  of  country  thrilling  at  the  heart,  an  American  blushes  to 
call  countrywomen.  When  the  time  drew  near,  this  ocean  of 
human  life  began  to  heave  and  swell  tumultuously  against  the 
prison  walls.  Many  climbed  upwards,  fierce  for  a  sight  of 
bloodshed,  though  at  the  peril  of  life  and  limb,  creeping  like 
animals  along  the  massive  stonework,  or  hoisted  up  on  the 
shoulders  of  those  below,  till  they  hung  on  the  gateway  and 
walls,  literally  swarming  there,  like  bees  seeking  for  a  hive. 

As  the  hour  drew  near,  the  mob  became  more  compact  and 
more  eager.  Excitement  grew  ferocious  ;  faces,  before  only 
curious,  now  gleamed  upwards  in  groups  and  masses,  haggard 
with  impatient  brutality.  Ten  minutes  had  gone  by — ten 


420  FASHION      AND      FAMJJNB. 

minutes  beyond  the  time,  and  the  gallows  still  loomed  up  from 
the  prison  yard  empty.  Then  the  crowd  began  to  murmur  and 
bandy  rude  jests,  like  men  who  had  paid  for  an  exhibition,  and 
feared  to  be  baffled  out  of  their  amusement.  Shouts  went  up; 
oaths  ran  from  lip  to  lip  ;  those  upon  the  walls  leaned  over, 
with  open  mouths  and  gloating  eyes,  ga-ziug  down  into  the 
yard,  then  telegraphed  their  companions,  or  shouted  their  dis 
appointment  to  the  mob,  while  others  crept  up  from  the  mass, 
crowding  the  possessors  from  their  places,  and  occasionally 
casting  one  headlong  downward. 

All  at  once,  when  the  whole  mob  was  tumultuous  with  im 
patience,  a  cry  of  fire  rung  up  from  the  prison  walls.  The 
crowd  caught  the  sound,  and  echoed  it  fiercely,  hearing  to  and 
fro,  and  trampling  each  other  down,  eager  to  see  the  flames 
burst  forth.  There  was  a  wooden  steeple  or  watch-tower, 
over  the  front  building  of  the  prison.  Through  the  huge  tim 
bers  of  this  structure  the  flames  leaped  upward,  flinging  long 
gleams  of  light  over  the  upturned  faces  of  the  multitude,  and 
adding  another  horrid  feature  to  a  scene  already  terrible. 
The  alarm  bells  sounded ;  the  crowd  rushed  to  and  fro,  shout 
ing,  heaving  up  in  waves,  beating  itself  fiercely  against  the 
prison  walls.  Through  the  masses  thundered  three  or  four 
engines,  and  a  stream  of  firemen  swept  through  the  tumult, 
pouring  noise  upon  noise,  with  their  trumpets  and  their  voices. 

The  prison  gates  were  flung  open,  and  as  the  firemen  entered, 
a  portion  of  the  crowd,  now  furious  with  excitement,  forced 
through  after  them,  with  a  sudden  rush,  filling  the  inner  courts 
like  a  torrent  let  loose. 

With  nothing  but  bare  timbers  to  feed  upon — for  the  prison 
itself  was  fire-proof — the  flames  soon  burned  themselves  out, 
after  scattering  brands  and  sparks  among  the  throng,  leaving  a 
red  glare  and  a  cloud  of  smoke  hovering  luridly  over  the  scene 
When  the  mob  sanr  the  fire  dying  away,  its  attention  was  once 
more  turned  upon  the  execution,  and  the  clamor  became  deaf 
ening  both  within  and  without  the  prison  walls.  The  hour  of 
death  had  gone  by.  Were  the  people  to  be  cheated  and  pu 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  421 

off  with  a  burning  watch-tower  ?  Were  mechanics,  who  had 
lost  half  a  day's  time,  in  order  to  see  a  man  hanged,  to  be  kept 
waiting,  when  their  appetite  was  whetted  for  a  sight  of  blood  ? 
They  packed  the  prison  courts  more  densely;  they  swarmed 
close  up  to  the  gallows,  and  pushed  forward  into  the  prison 
corridors,  abusing  the  sheriff,  and  calling  on  him  vociferously 
to  come  forth  and  explain  the  meaning  of  all  this  delay. 

He  did  come  forth,  at  last,  looking  white  as  death  ;  but  this 
was  nothing.  All  were  pale  then,  either  from  compassion  or 
wrath.  He  came  slowly  forth  from  the  prisoner's  cell,  and 
standing  upon  the  third  gallery,  looked  down  upon  the  mob. 

"  Bring  the  old  fellow  out — let's  see  him — no  put  off  with 
us  1"  Shouted  a  man  near  the  staircase. 

"  I  cannot  bring  him  out,  he  is " 

They  drowned  the  sheriff's  voice  with  clamor. 

"  Cheated  the  gallows — stabbed  himself." 

The  sheriff  again  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  tumult  grew 
louder. 

"  Bring  him  out — dead  or  alive,  bring  him  out !" 

The  officer  waved  his  hand  and  pointed  into  the  cell.  Hall 
a  dozen  men  sprang  up  from  the  masses,  and  ran  from  one  gal 
lery  to  another,  shouting  to  the  crowd  below. 

"We'll  see  for  ourselves — it's  all  sham — they  mean  to  let 
him  escape !" 

Like  a  troop  of  wild  animals  they  plunged  forward,  pushed  \ 
themselves  past  the  sheriff,  and  entered  the  cell.  There  they 
stood  motionless,  all  their  brutal  ferocity  struck  dumb  within 
them.  They  had  their  wish.  The  old  man  was  before  them  ; 
the  last  gleam  of  life  in  his  eyes  ;  the  last  breath  freezing  upon 
his  lips.  God  had  been  very  merciful,  more  merciful  than  the 
law. 


422  FASHION      AND      FAMINE. 

CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

HEARTS     AND     CONSCIENCES     AT     REST. 

The  storms  of  life  with  her  are  passed, 

Stern  memory  leaves  her  soul  at  rest ; 
She  finds  a  tranquil  home  at  last, 

Content  with  blessing,  to  be  blessed. 

MRS.  GORDON  never  appeared  again  in  the  gay  world.  The 
reason  was  a  mystery  that  no  one  could  explain.  The  rich 
furniture,  the  statues  and  pictures  that  had  made  her  home  a 
palace,  were  quietly  sold,  and  the  rooms  filled  with  everything 
essential  to  comfort,  without  the  slightest  approach  to  former 
profuse  luxuriousness.  Plain  carriages  and  less  spirited  horses, 
took  the  place  of  her  former  superb  equipage.  The  grounds 
still  bloomed  with  flowers,  the  hot-houses  teemed  with  fruit,  but 
Ada  seldom  tasted  the  one  or  inhaled  the  other.  She  was  far 
too  busy  and  useful  for  the  indulgence,  even  of  her  most  harm 
less  love  of  the  beautiful.  She  had  literally  gone  out  by  the 
wayside  and  hedges,  forcing  the  poor  to  come  in  and  partake  of 
her  hospitality.  For  months  Jacob  Strong  might  have  been 
observed,  side  by  side  with  his  mistress,  threading  the  alleys, 
searching  in  attic  chambers,  for  objects  of  just  charity.  Old 
men  and  women,  generally  of  the  educated  poor,  who  could  not 
work,  and  were  too  proud  for  begging,  soon  became  the  inmates 
of  those  splendid  saloons.  Any  day,  when  you  passed  that 
mansion,  some  old  lady  in  her  snow-white  cap  might  be  seen 
looking  quietly  from  the  casement,  while  others  strolled  in  the 
gardens,  or  amused  themselves  in  the  marble  vestibule.  Oc 
casionally  Jacob  Strong  might  be  seen  loitering  about  the  door, 
but  all  the  servants  were  changed.  The  very  atmosphere  of 
the  place  seemed  that  of  another  region.  No  French  maids, 
no  liveried  footman,  lent  a  foreign  and  meretricious  air  to  the 
dwelling  now.  In  the  place  of  former  splendor,  gay  tumult 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  423 

and  heartless  display,  reigned  a  calm  and  pure  tranquillity. 
Every  face  was  serene  ;  every  being  you  met  looked  soberly 
content. 

In  truth,  the  little  paradise — for  still  the  beautiful  reigned 
throughout  that  dwelling — did  indeed  at  times  seem  haunted 
by  an  angel  ;  for  flitting  about,  now  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
garden,  now  in  the  more  bland  sunshine  of  her  mother's  smile, 
Julia  grew  in  beauty  and  in  all  those  sweet  qualities  which  are 
the  essence  of  loveliness.  If  painful  memories  sometimes 
haunted  the  maiden — if  a  prison  cell  and  an  old  man  blessing 
her  with  his  last  breath — a  tumult  of  people,  and  wild  shouts 
that  seemed  terrible  to  her,  even  then,  sometimes  broke  upon 
her  in  the  still  morning,  or  the  more  stilly  night,  it  was  but  a 
passing  cloud  ;  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  would  thank 
God,  that  those  who  loved  that  good  old  man  had  been 
saved  the  crowning  horror  of  his  death. 

And  the  old  grandmother — it  should  have  been  no  cause  of 
grief  when  the  meek  woman  went  softly  to  sleep  one  night  and 
awoke  with  her  husband  in  heaven.  It  was  the  home  she  had 
pined  for  even  when  surrounded  closest  by  her  children's  love. 
They  laid  her  by  his  side  in  Greenwood,  with  many  tears,  for 
though  certain  that  happiness  awaits  -the  departed,  those  who 
are  left  must  mourn,  or  they  cannot  have  loved. 

Now  we  have  one  scene  to  describe,  and  our  story  is  done. 
It  was  three  years  after  the  death  of  old  Mr.  Wilcox,  and  once 
more  the  home  of  Ada  Leicester  was  lighted  up  for  guests. 
The  boudoir  which  we  have  so  often  mentioned  was  redolent 
with  flowers,  and  the  pure  muslin  curtains  floated  to  and  fro  in 
the  summer  air  that  came  balmily  through  the  open  windows. 
Beyond,  was  the  bed-chamber.  You  could  hear  the  rustle  of 
light  footsteps  on  the  India  matting,  and  see  the  gleam  of  snowy 
drapery,  waving  like  a  cloud  in  the  distance.  All  was  exqui 
sitely  chaste  and  full  of  simplicity.  How  unlike  the  gorgeous 
luxuriousness  of  those  rooms,  in  other  days  ! 

The  rooms  filled,  not  with  guests  such  as  had  made  them 
brilliant  once,  but  with  persons  who  may  interest  the  reader 


424  FASHION   AND   FAMINE. 

far  more.  The  first  person  whom  Jacob  Strong  ushered  into 
the  boudoir,  was  his  own  sister,  Mrs.  Gray.  Never  in  her 
whole  life  had  the  good  lady  appeared  so  radiantly  happy.  Her 
gown  of  silver  grey  silk  rustled  cheerfully  as  she  walked,  white 
satin  ribbons  knotted  the  lace  cap  under  her  chin  and  floated 
in  glistening  streamers  adown  the  white  muslin  kerchief  folded 
over  her  bosom.  A  pair  of  gloves — man's  size,  but  white  as 
snow — were  neatly  buttoned  about  her  plump  wrists.  This, 
with  her  beautiful  grey  hair,  her  cheeks  softly  red  like  a  mel 
low  winter  apple,  and  the  double  chin  that  had  taken  a  triple 
fold  since  we  last  saw  her,  would  have  warmed  your  heart  had 
you  been  a  guest  at  that  house,  as  she  was.  Then  there  was  a 
quiet  little  old  lady  in  black,  who  glided  in  like  a  shadow,  and 
was  completely  lost  behind  the  rotundity  of  Mrs.  Gray's 
person  ;  and  another  gentle  creature  clothed  in  black  also,  but 
of  a  beauty  that  made  your  heart  ache,  the  sweet  face  was 
so  touchingly  sad,  the  countenance  so  waxen  in  its  whiteness, 
and  every  movement  was  so  painfully  shy.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
poor  young  creature  might  turn  and  flee,  like  a  frightened  doe, 
if  an  unfamiliar  eye  were  turned  upon  her.  Reader,  these  two  per 
sons  are  no  strangers  to  you;  they  are  the  mother  and  the  vic 
tim  of  William  Leicester.  Poor  Florence,  her  mind  was 
shaken  yet,  but  not  as  it  had  been.  She  was  gentle  and  mourn 
fully  sad,  but  not  insane.  Still  it  was  a  painful  thing  to  see  a 
creature  so  young,  with  that  utter  hopelessness  of  countenance. 
She  sat  down  close  to  the  little,  aged  woman,  and  looked  up  in 
her  face,  with  meek,  trusting  eyes,  holding  shyly  to  a  fold  of  her 
dress  all  the  while.  Not  even  the  sunny  smile  of  Mrs.  Gray, 
could  win  a  gleam  of  joy  to  those  large  eyes.  Then  there  was 
a  large  woman  with  black  eyes  and  an  abundance  of  raven 
hair,  that  kept  bustling  in  and  out  of  the  bed-charnber  with  a 
look  of  happy  importance,  that  made  her  strong  features  quite 
handsome.  You  would  hardly  have  recognized  the  prison  wo 
man,  in  that  neatly  clad  rosy  cheeked  female,  the  expression 
and  whole  appearance  was  so  changed.  Home  and  care  had 
done  everything  for  her,  and  at  this  time  she  was  housekeeper 


FASHION      AND      FAMINE.  425 

in  the  mansion.  Had  you  asked  her  character  of  the  old  ladies 
who  found  an  asylum  there,  the  account  would  have  astonished 
you.  After  all,  where  real  strength  of  character  exists,  there  is 
always  hope  of  reformation.  It  is  your  weak  sinner  for  whom 
one  despairs  the  most.  As  this  woman  passed  through  the 
room,  she  always  turned  her  eyes,  beaming  with  fondness,  on 
a  little  boy,  half  concealed  by  the  flow  of  Mrs.  Gray's  gown. 
It  was  quite  wonderful  how  much  that  gown  could  shelter  ;  and 
the  mother  spoke  in  that  glance  eloquently  as  ever  love  was 
uttered  in  words. 

rlhen  there  was  Jacob  Strong  himself,  with  a  new  coat  in  its 
first  gloss,  too  short  for  his  long  arms,  and  cut  after  a  fashion  of 
his  own,  which  made  him  look  more  round-shouldered  and  un 
gainly  than  ever.  A  buff  vest,  and  gloves  of  a  deeper  yellow, 
gave  an  air  of  peculiar  smartness  to  his  costume,  which  bespoke 
some  very  important  occasion  ;  for  it  was  not  often  that  Jacob 
gave  way  to  weaknesses  regarding  his  toilet ;  and  when  he  did, 
the  effect  was  indisputably  striking. 

Besides  the  persons  we  have  mentioned,  were  a  score  of  nice 
aged  women  in  snowy  caps  and  chintz  dresses,  looking  the  very 
pictures  of  contented  old  age,  who  whispered  cosily  together, 
and  watched  a  door  that  led  to  the  stairs  with  the  greatest 
interest,  as  if  some  very  important  person  was  expected  to  enter 
from  that  way. 

Their  impatience  was  gratified  at  last  ;  for  a  clergyman  with 
flowing  robes  came  sweeping  through,  escorted  by  Jacob 
Strong,  who  had  been  wandering  about  the  dim  vestibule  during 
the  last  ten  minutes.  Directly  after,  the  room  opposite  was 
flung  open,  and  Robert  Otis  came  forth,  leading  a  fair  young 
girl  by  the  hand.  There  was  something  heavenly  in  the  loveli 
ness  of  that  gentle  bride,  as  the  blush  deepened  and  faded  away 
beneath  the  gossamer  sheen  of  her  veil. 

Jacob  Strong  rubbed  his  yellow  gloves  softly  together,  as  he 
gazed  upon  her  ;  and  the  rustle  of  Mrs.  Gray's  dress  was  abso 
lutely  eloquent  of  all  the  restless  pride  she  felt  in  seeing  the  two 
beings  she  most  loved  united  for  ever. 


426  FASHION      AND     FAMINE. 

Of  all  the  persons  present,  Ada  Leicester  alone  was  sad, 
She  remembered  her  own  marriage,  and  the  shadow  of  many  a 
painful  thought  swept  across  her  face,  as  the  solemn  benedic 
tion  was  uttered  over  her  child. 

When  the  ceremony  was  complete  Florence  arose,  and  qui 
etly  placing  a  folded  paper  in  the  lap  of  the  bride,  stole  away, 
as  if  terrified  by  the  strange  eyes  that  followed  her  movement. 
Julia  took  up  the  paper,  half  unfolded  it,  and  then,  with  a  blush 
and  a  smile,  placed  it  in  the  hand  of  her  young  husband.  With 
that  paper  Florence  had. conveyed  two  thirds  of  her  fine  pro 
perty  to  the  daughter  of  William  Leicester — the  man  who  iad 
swept  every  blossom  from,  the  pathway  of  her  own  life. 


THE     END. 


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